Folar is the generic name given to traditional Easter sweet bread in Portugal. Making it from scratch is somewhat of a long process, but being confined due to the coronavirus crisis, we seem to have a bit more time on our hands than expected. My family’s folar recipe is from my grandmother Felismina, who was from Rosmaninhal, near Mação (in the center of Portugal). As long as I can remember we would have this sweet bread around Easter. (A similar type of sweet bread is also baked around November 1, for All Saints’ Day.)

Le Mistral, as the strong northwesterly wind is known here in Marseille, returned on a recent September day for the first time in a long while. It is an indicator of the change of seasons and that autumn is upon us. A driving wind that blows directly down the Rhone Valley to the Mediterranean, it averages 30-50 miles per hour. Le Mistral is so celebrated that for 30 years, Marseille has held La Fête du Vent (The Wind Festival) and ironically, it coincides today with its return. It is also the reason that we enjoy 300 days per year of luminous, sunny skies. The wind is said to bring good health, and one reason for good wine, because it clears the vines and dries the soil.

We’ve been fans of the authentically spicy flavors of La Wei Xian since 2014, when we added the ramshackle restaurant to our Night Eats tour route in the Laoximen neighborhood. The stop was a favorite of our guests for years, but in August 2017, Mr. Liu fell victim to the redevelopment of the Old Town area and was forced to shut down his shop when the local government wouldn’t renew his food and beverage licenses. But Mr. Liu has never been one to give up, and he’s always got his eye on the bottom line. He is the type of guy who will spend hours trying to convince you to go on a four-day road trip with his whole family (totaling six members) back to his hometown of Zigong, Sichuan, in a Winnebago that is meant for two at best, just to split the gas money.

Making chilaquiles always seemed a little out of my reach. I’m familiar with the dish’s humble beginnings, invented as a way of making use of day-old tortillas, but it still held some element of mystery for me: Under the practiced hands of locals, what seemed to be normal, everyday ingredients – fried tortillas, cooked salsa, raw onion, fresh cheese, double cream – transformed into a blend of flavors that felt impossible to recreate. This is a dish that I came to love after moving to Mexico City, where it quickly became my go-to when I sat down at a restaurant for breakfast. If I couldn’t find anyone to accompany me, I would often go out to breakfast alone just to eat chilaquiles.

The first time we officially met was at our bacchanalian book launch down a Galata side street in 2010. A natty beyefendi with neatly manicured sideburns hovered around the edges of a group as we signed copies of “Istanbul Eats, Exploring the Culinary Backstreets” and clinked Efes cans with friends, readers and party crashers. He found an opening and approached. “Do you know who I am?” He introduced himself as Levon bey, the owner of Mutfak Dili, a small restaurant down in the Perşembe Pazarı hardware market, in the seaside neighborhood of Karaköy. He’d come to thank us in person for reviewing his restaurant and the strange fortune it had brought to him.

Several years back, before İstiklal became an open-air shopping mall, reaching old man Sabırtaşı’s streetside içli köfte stand felt like pulling into a safe harbor. Always standing there was the beatific Ali Bey, an angel in a white doctor’s coat offering salvation in the form of his golden fried içli köfte. Although his presence is still sorely missed, his son Mustafa – who inherited not only his father’s white coat but also his kind demeanor – and wife have proudly continued the tradition of selling their sublime içli köfte to İstiklal’s hungry pedestrians.

Sunday, April 19, was Easter in the Orthodox Christian world, the holiest day of the year. Like most people in today’s pandemic world, Maka Shengelia, one of our walk leaders in Tbilisi, was home being a responsible citizen. But she was also spreading butter on her own freshly baked paska, Easter bread, popular in the Eastern Church. It is a tall, dome-shaped cake, inseparable from Easter’s other “edible decoration,” boiled eggs dyed a deep magenta with endro (madder root). God will forgive you for celebrating Easter without going to church, but commemorating it without red eggs and paska is another matter entirely.

Greek Easter was extraordinary – in the truest sense of the word – this year. Despite the fantastic weather people had to stay at home to celebrate, quite a lonesome setup compared to the crowded daylong outdoor feast that we are normally used to. Despite being at home, my 7-year-old son and I did all the same Easter traditions, just in smaller quantities. One of the most fun traditions for children is the “egg breaking” ritual. We dye eggs on Good Thursday; this year, since my son is into space and Star Wars, we used that as inspiration and dyed our eggs like planets – we’ve got plenty of time, so we might as well use it creatively!

One of the things we cherish most at Culinary Backstreets are the friendships we build with the restaurant and small business owners featured on our walks. While we worry what will happen to them (and their independent businesses) once the pandemic ends, we also want to learn more about what they are doing during this period. The first person we checked in with was chef Filipe Rodrigues, from Taberna do Mar. He hasn’t left home since he closed the small corner restaurant, one of the highlights of our Lisbon walk “Hidden Flavors of the Hillside: Graça and Mouraria,” on March 14. While the delicious fish dishes are always a big hit with our guests, they really seem to love chatting to Filipe and admiring his skills, especially when he torches the sardine nigiri.

It’s been interesting to see how Queens has adapted to life in lockdown. Personally, I have been cooking at home a lot, particularly for breakfast and lunch, which are basically the only two meals I have every day (usually I have a snack late at night, right before I go to bed). I have been staying in as much as I can. I exercise in front of the TV. I try to ride my bicycle on rollers for at least an hour every day. I lift weights and stretch as much as I can. I go to the farmers’ market – it’s fantastic to see the farmers that are still making it into the city and providing us with access to fresh fruit, vegetables cheese, eggs, etc. I talk to Nestor from Tello’s Farm, who makes the trek down from Coxsackie, New York, with his fresh eggs.

A popular dessert in Naples and beyond, the zeppola di San Giuseppe, a deep-fried cream puff, is traditionally eaten on the Feast of St. Joseph (also called St. Joseph’s Day), on March 19, which is also when Father’s Day is celebrated in Italy. On this day, each Neapolitan traditionally eats several zeppole, despite their enormous size and rich filling. I have seen some that, with the addition of cream puffs, cream (inside and outside) and black cherries, weighed almost half a kilo.

I didn’t take the coronavirus seriously at first. In fact, its severity didn’t hit me until a few days ago. Earlier this month I was in Berlin, visiting my brother. The city’s tourism fair was abruptly canceled as a result of the virus, but we weren’t worried. We went out at night, eating and drinking and having a good time, as one does in this capital of debauchery. Upon return to Istanbul, I still wasn’t particularly concerned. There still had not been a case of the virus confirmed in Turkey at that point. I went on a gastronomic trip to Nevşehir and Kırşehir where I feasted on Central Anatolia’s delicious regional specialties and enjoyed numerous bottles of the Cappadocia region’s famous wine.

Thursday, March 12, 11 a.m. My butt muscles start to hurt. I’ve been sitting for too many days, testing the resistance of Italian sofas (a small spot of national pride at a time when the rest of the world is scared of Italy). It is the fifth day of being confined indoors. We are following the #iorestoacasa (“I Stay Home”) decree of the government. In just four days everything has changed. Nobody dares to say, “It’s all an exaggeration.” Now the numbers are a confirmation – for some strange reason Italy has the highest number of infected people in the world after China.

Perhaps nowhere else is it clearer that as many as one million Syrians have settled down in Istanbul than in the city’s historic Fatih district. The neighborhood is home to the city’s immigration headquarters (Fatih Emniyet), and the backstreets leading up to it are among the most transformed, since Syrians and other new arrivals end up spending hours there, often taking multiple trips to the office to get their paperwork in order. A stroll down the area’s Aksemsettin Caddesi reveals a dwindling number of Turkish markets and a rising number of Syrian ones, a collection of Syrian fast food joints, one Yemeni establishment and one eatery that transports its patrons through time and space, serving up dishes that in the past rarely made an appearance outside of the Syrian home kitchen.

For those not in the know, the bright yellow table behind the shelves at Indo Java Groceries in Elmhurst, Queens, may seem like nothing more than a curious design choice. But what they don’t realize is that this table is a sign of something great – it means that one of three chefs is in the building. Hailing from different places on the long landmass of Java, the world’s most populous island, these women are cooking meals that remind New York City’s Indonesian community of the tastes they miss from back home. The origin of these popular days, when customers can purchase food cooked on the spot, happened almost by accident: Inspectors from the city health department wanted to see a working kitchen since the grocery store was selling prepared foods.