Holiday traditions tend to be tied to numbers. In southern Italy there is the Feast of Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, while in Poland, the night before Christmas is celebrated with borscht, herring and poppy seed cake at the 12-course Wigilia. Here in Provence, our lucky number is 13, with the Treize Desserts de Noël. By no means a static tradition, the 13 Desserts of Christmas have evolved over the centuries. Its first mention in 1683 by Marseille cleric Francois Marchetti in Explication des Usages et Coutumes des Marseillais (An Explication of Customs and Traditions of the Marseillais) detailed 13 breads, not desserts, alongside cakes and dried and fresh fruit. The table was topped with three tablecloths to represent the Holy Trinity – a custom that some families still practice today.

The scent of wood slowly burning is imbued with a sense of home and refuge: It calls to mind the fireplace around which people used to congregate at the end of the day, or the barbecues and grills that still commonly serve as gathering points. This feeling can also be concentrated in bites of food, like the almonds or hazelnuts that have been roasted in Casa Gispert’s wood-burning oven, a relic from 1851 that continues to roast to this day. The oldest food shop in Barcelona, Casa Gispert has both stayed stubbornly the same and slowly evolved. We’ll always remember how, 20 years ago, the beautiful shop was darker and more mysterious; locals used to line up around Christmas to buy their raw, roasted or caramelized nuts, dried fruits, spices and chocolates for their dinners and gifts.

Naples is a city strewn with street vendors. Bread, thin pizzas meant to be eaten folded, fried pizzas, octopus broth, roasted artichokes, cones full of fried goodies, donuts, panzerotti and rice balls – there’s little you can’t find one of Naples’ vendors selling. Together, these numerous street sellers and their small stands play an important economic and cultural role in the city. In the midst of all these vendors there’s one that somehow manages to stand out. Some know him simply as Carmine. Others call him Carmine the Wizard because of his enchanting roasted chestnuts, which warm the hands and the stomachs of Neapolitans in winter. Whatever you call him, he’s an icon of Naples street food.

There was no wind and we were in the middle of the Black Sea on a bright summer day, puttering across the deep blue expanse in a chaika, a small wooden Cossack war ship that its Ukrainian sail-ors had equipped with a diesel motor. We were two days out from Yalta, and our captain, Myron, was looking eastward towards our destination of Batumi, his blue eyes glazed in a dreamy state of longing. “Ah, Georgia. Satsivi,” he sighed. “Satsivi,” he repeated sensually to Roman, the first mate, as if it were the name of a beckoning siren. “I cannot wait.” I was impressed he didn’t sob for khinkali and khachapuri like everyone else. But still, I had to quickly snuff out his reverie.

As soon as you enter Mercado Jamaica, one of Mexico City’s largest markets, you will quickly see (and smell) its main trade: flowers. Down the long aisles, hundreds of sellers line up colorful flowers that come from Xochimilco and other states. Visiting the market truly engages all the senses. But, you may ask, how does this include taste? Well, Jamaica Market happens to be home to several outstanding food vendors, among them one of our favorite taco stands in all of Mexico City. Hidden away among the market’s produce vendors, this stand doesn’t have a sign, and you can easily miss it if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Once you find it, though, you’ll keep coming back for their superb green chorizo tacos.

Erisvaldo Correia dos Santos dreamed of being a star. He saw himself as a humorist, a singer maybe, and most certainly an artist. But the scrabbling northeastern immigrant came in 2005 to Rio, the Brazilian city of dreams, with just 20 reais – about $9 – in his pocket and a family to feed. “When I came here, I was hard as a coconut,” dos Santos says, meaning he was hard-up for cash. Nothing a little self-deprecation and naughty jokes couldn’t make up for. Food and guilty pleasure have a long, intertwined history, going all the way back to Adam and Eve. In that vein, snickering Brazilians have long appropriated the verb comer ("to eat") to mean a more carnal type of consumption. Rosca, the word for “screw,” has been turned into something even more blush-worthy, referring to other, fleshier things that can be screwed, and is also used to refer to a nicely round doughnut.

The first thing we noticed about Lukumas, a well-loved Greek doughnut shop in Gràcia, was its creative graphic identity. That should come as no surprise given that Petros Paschalidis, who opened the place in 2010, is in fact a graphic designer. He designed its stylish interior as well as Lukumas’s logo, a rendering of a paunchy, mustachioed vendor peddling lukumas, traditional Greek round sugar doughnuts.

Editor’s note: This is the penultimate installment of “Best Bites of 2012,” a roundup of our top culinary experiences over the last year. Stay tuned for our final “Best Bites” dispatch, from Istanbul, tomorrow. Restaurant Roma We hadn’t planned on bringing in La Nochevieja at Restaurant Roma, but it was nearby and we didn’t feel up for public-transport adventures on New Year’s Eve. Situated on a quiet street in the upscale but untouristy Barcelona neighborhood of Sant Gervasi, Roma is thoroughly nondescript – a neighborhood joint frequented by neighborhood people of a certain age. The wood-paneled walls, racks of Maxim magazines and TV mounted in the corner kept our expectations pretty low.