In Mexico, marketplaces have been the soul of communities for millennia, and of the many modern-day ones we’ve visited in Mexico City, the one we’re always most excited to return to is Mercado Medellín in Roma Sur. Recently, we visited with a guide, an American expat who gets her produce and meat there every week and could get us the inside scoop. Our first stop was La Sorpresa butchery. Arturo, the owner, shook our hands and continued breaking down a large piece of beef for a special delivery. He told us that his family has run La Sorpresa inside the market for 25 years. The meat they sell comes from different slaughterhouses in the country, and even from the United States.

For the carioca in need of grains in bulk, cheap party decorations, live animals and herbs for the ritual baths practiced in Afro-Brazilian faiths, the Mercadão de Madureira offers one-stop shopping. Madureira is a good two-hour bus ride from tourist-zone Ipanema and is tucked behind hills far from the ocean breeze, which means the neighborhood heats up even more than already steamy Rio. In the heart of Rio’s working-class north zone, the Mercadão is where cariocas who count every real go to comparison-shop and haggle for the best deals in the city limits. Remember that the minimum wage in Rio is less than 800 reais (about US$330) per month, and a middle-class family is defined as earning above US$450 per month. That means the 100-real meals of Ipanema are hardly palatable for the so-called “new middle class.” Despite the cheery BRIC emerging-economy narrative and the olho grande (“big eye,” or greed) of investors looking for a new consumer market, this sector of Brazilian society can be better understood as the working poor.

Early on in Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s 2001 film Amélie, the title character plunges her hand into a big sack of lentils, relishing the sensation of them slipping through her fingers, a look of pure pleasure on her face. That kind of behavior is verboten in shops that sell dry goods by weight, but buying groceries in bulk has its own inherent pleasures (and you can run your fingers through your purchases once you’re back at home). Just as with bulk wine, buying food in bulk is making a comeback in Barcelona. Not only does this practice yield less packaging waste, but in our minds, it also makes hunting for great ingredients all the more enjoyable.

Dear Culinary Backstreets, I just moved to Shanghai, and while I’m looking forward to investigating all the street food options, I’d love to be able to make dinner at home too and would like to get into Chinese cooking. Where’s the best place to stock up my new kitchen?

One of our favorite places in Mexico City is Xochimilco. Like many visitors, when we hear the word “Xochimilco” the first thing that comes to our mind is a relaxing ride aboard a trajinera, or boat, on the waterways of this southern borough. We’ve been to Xochimilco many times before, on family excursions to buy flowers, plants and compost from the local farmers.

A hidden culinary sanctuary, El Passadís del Pep may be located in one of the most visited quarters of Barcelona, but it’s out of sight of anyone who isn’t looking for it. Once you go down the long corridor that leads to the restaurant, you don’t need to do anything, and that includes choosing what to eat. From the moment you sit down, the “house” offers you your first bottle of cava, and the celebration of food and life begins. There is no menu and there are no “daily specials,” just whatever Joan Manubens and his team decide to cook that day.

Editor’s note: This post is the first installment of “Best Bites of 2013,” a roundup of our top culinary experiences over the last year. Stay tuned for “Best Bites” from all of the cities Culinary Backstreets covers. Deng Ji Chuan Cai Culinary bucket lists are some of the best ways to discover our friends’ hidden gems: expat foodies are only willing to give up their proprietary favorites when they’re heading home.

Whenever we explore a neighborhood in the city, we look for the tianguis: local markets that serve as a very important part of life in Mexico. Almost everything needed for a household can be found in their narrow and colorful aisles. Mercado San Cosme is the tianguis in Colonia San Rafael, a beautiful and charming neighborhood that was established in the late 19th century as one of the first formal communities outside of the city center. In the Porfirio Díaz era, San Rafael catered to the wealthy, and the beautiful buildings and façades that still grace the streets there speak to those long-ago days of glory.

Mexico City’s southern neighborhood of Coyoacán, once a separate town outside the city limits, is now a popular area with cobblestone lanes full of art galleries, museums, restaurants and flea markets. For us, though, the real allure of the neighborhood is the opportunity to visit Tostadas Coyoacán, a marketplace restaurant that elevates the humble tostada to dizzying culinary heights.

I’m sitting in the shade of a gardener’s shack with a mad man. At least, that’s what he says he is, though his cloud of white hair, smiling face and cordial manner are reassuringly benign. The garden itself is an ebullience of tomatoes, potatoes, zukes, cukes and eggplant and is especially unusual in Kifisia, the affluent suburb north of Athens, where lawns are prized as a status symbol.

“You can eat these raw, efendim!” shouted Aziz Bey to a suspicious woman dressed in a headscarf of sharp geometric designs and a denim duster. “Don’t be scared!” he said, ripping the cap off of a raw kokulu cincire mushroom with his teeth and chewing it in an exaggerated, open-mouthed way to show that there were no tricks. “Mis gibi!” he said, using a phrase that is more frequently printed on laundry detergent bottles or uttered by mothers doting over infants. “Fragrant!” In Turkey, many people assign much of what happens throughout the day to kismet, or fate, but when eating wild mushrooms you might be tempting it. Every year, it seems, local papers report on someone’s demise by mushrooms, which explained why the woman in the duster was reluctant to finish the transaction.

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Dear Culinary Backstreets, I keep hearing about something in Chinese cuisine called “stinky tofu.” Does it really smell that bad to earn such an offensive moniker?

As a child, Manel Palou spent hours playing in the kitchen of Andorra, his parents’ restaurant in Barcelona’s Barrio El Born. Later, as a teenager, he helped out behind the counter while his brother Miki cooked in the kitchen. Originally bought by his grandfather in 1952, the small restaurant had been around for as long as anyone could remember; even the old-timers in the neighborhood can’t remember where the name comes from or who the previous owners were. Then in 2004, Manel’s parents decided to sell Andorra and retire. Within six years, the restaurant went from being a neighborhood favorite to a mediocre Italian joint with few clients and little charm.