In the heat of the summer, there’s nothing quite like settling into a breezy spot close to vast blue of the Tagus River with some friends and a few snacks. But due to the city’s hills and its construction projects, it’s not always easy to find a nice place for a picnic close to the river. One consistently good spot, though, is Tapada das Necessidades, previously a royal park. It’s also conveniently close to the Alcântara neighborhood, home to some of our favorite food and wine shops. While we aren’t currently permitted to drink in public places – a new Covid-19 measure – we can still picnic with amazing produce while overlooking the river and the 25th April Bridge.

In post-Covid times, Neapolitans have been spending more time outdoors, lounging on the grass, letting the children play and, of course, having a bite to eat. And it’s possible to do all this in the city, without having to go “out of town.” Obviously grilling, lighting fires and complex preparations are prohibited. So for now we have to settle for a simpler marenna, which is the Neapolitan word for “snack” – sandwiches and prepared dishes, mostly. Here are three of my favorite parks in the city to picnic at as well as nearby rotisseries where you can stock up on typically Neapolitan flavors.

Fanis Theodoropoulos grew up regularly visiting his father’s deli on Evripidou, the so-called “spice street” in the vibrant Central Market area. His father Dimitris, or “Barba-Mitsos,” as they called him, ran the tiny shop until 2002, when Fanis took over. Although they now offer a wide selection of meats and cheeses, sourced from artisanal producers all over the country, the hole-in-the-wall shop mainly sold air-dried cured meats like pastourma and soutzouki, as well as salami from Lefkada island until the 1980s. With these cured meats as a foundation, Fanis has built a small empire of delis – most recently an expansive “workshop” in the Monastiraki neighborhood – that draw from long-held culinary traditions.

Perched at the northern tip of Marseille, the fishing port of L’Estaque has drawn diverse groups throughout the decades. In the last half of the 19th century, bourgeois Marseillais would tram from the city center to eat bouillabaisse and swim on its shores. When the industrial era launched in 1820, L’Estaque housed workers from the nearby factories where traditional Provençal terra cotta tiles were made. From the late 19th century to the early 20th century, the diverse landscape and the incredible light lured painters from the north like Braques and Cézanne, who compared the sloping village to a “playing card” with its “red roofs against a blue sea.” But since the 1930s, people have flocked to L’Estaque for another reason: the fried snacks.

The concept of what’s near and far has gone topsy-turvy as of late. In the last decade, before the pandemic hit, far was near: We could have breakfast in Barcelona, get on a plane and arrive in time for lunch in Athens. Nowadays, the other side of one’s municipality is considered far-flung, and going there to eat at a restaurant you’ve dined at a hundred times before is a big adventure, one worth documenting on social media. While we felt that distance keenly during the state of emergency, we could also close our eyes and imagine ourselves back in our favorite restaurants, sitting down to eat our favorite dishes.

Introduced during Ottoman times, the kafeneion – the old-fashioned kind of coffee house – has long been a fixture in Greece. By 1860, Athens already had more than 100 establishments that were serving what has been called both Greek coffee and Turkish coffee (name debates aside, we can all agree that it’s more or less the same thing, a small cup of strong coffee with a thick sludge at the bottom). They were (and still are) the domain of men, who would congregate there to talk politics and socialize over coffee as well as more substantial fare, usually simple meze and ouzo or tsipouro. Although the traditional Greek kafeneion still exists in many Athenian neighborhoods, it’s slowly dying out.

Some of Marseille’s most majestic buildings surround the Estrangin métro stop: the American consulate, the ornately sculpted Caisse d’Epargne bank, and the Napoleon-style Préfecture. Between them sits an equally iconic institution, Café de la Banque. Yet while its high-profile neighbors deal in banking and bureaucracy, this spot serves something more essential: a dependable place for delicious food and drink. Named for the surrounding banks, this non-stop café is a neighborhood fixture that hums all day. Regulars fill the old-timey interior and one of Marseille’s best patios for a morning café, the perpetually packed lunch service, and post-work beverages. In a city whose Mediterranean identity often sets it apart from the rest of France, Café de la Banque serves up a comforting slice of classic French café culture.

This is a story that starts and ends with the land. First there was the father, Spyros Vracha, a farmer who owned fields nearby Chalandri, now a middle-class suburb around 8 km north of downtown Athens. His crops supplied the kitchens of the tavernas in the area, which until the 1980s was dotted with villas, rather than the apartment blocks of today. Before it closed down almost 30 years ago, Ta Marmara (“The Marbles,” so called because of Chalandri’s many marble suppliers and workshops) was one of the tavernas that Spyros supplied. It was owned by Stavros and Athena, Spyros’ neighbors.

We like to think of Oaxaca as the heartland of Mexican cooking. All those things that seems so classically and elementally Mexican – corn, chiles, moles, mezcal – can be traced back to the fertile area that surrounds this historic city.

When you hear something go crunch on the left side of L’Eixample, whether crispy bread or churros, croquettes or socarrat, the toasted bottom of paella, there’s a good chance it came from the kitchen of Miquel Pardo. The 30-year-old chef runs his own restaurant called, appropriately, Cruix (Crunch), a place to have fun with food and discover amazing rice dishes from Castellón, a province in the Valencian Community. A native of this region, Pardo mixes his granny’s sofritos with a creativity inspired by the Adriá brothers, cooking dishes that will fill the stomachs of his relatives and friends, among whom he counts the clients of his restaurant.

The name Aristaeus Ethno Wine Bar suggests many things, some puzzling but the most obvious being that wine is served. One look at the menu, though, and it becomes clear this spot is more restaurant than bar. One food item in particular caught our attention: dambalkhacho. We first heard of dambalkhacho some years back when a friend offered us hard, moldy cheese bits cut from a ball about the size of a healthy orange. It was rich, slightly peppery with a sharp, tart finish; nothing like any cheese we had ever tried.

It was a frosty dark night just before the solstice and as we walked the 10 or so minutes from the Keramikos Metro to our destination, we passed familiar favorites like A Little Taste of Home and places as yet unvisited that seemed alluring. But when we ventured further into the unknown, the street was empty both of pedestrians and lit storefronts. Where was this restaurant? A few blocks more brought us back to terra cognita. The Old Bicycle (To Palio Podilato), its window bright and with a bicycle hanging inside, turned out to be practically next door to the Benaki Museum’s Pireos Street annex, one of the city’s most exciting museums for modern art, photography and foreign exhibitions.

The Bosphorus Strait, which divides the city of Istanbul and separates the European and Asian continents, has long influenced the city’s cuisine. Although it’s no longer heaving with fish, we can still see some fresh catches on our Born on the Bosphorus walk, which begins in the market of Beşiktaş.

In Sukhumi, the capital of Abkhazia, there is an old pier with a sorrowful rusting shell of a café poking out over the Black Sea. What had been a dining room is a vacant space that mostly seems to serve as a public urinal, while upstairs a kiosk-sized café serves Turkish-style coffee, beer and snacks with plastic tables and chairs for locals who bitterly recall when the café was one of the most happening spots in Sukhumi. Georgians and Abkhaz dined, drank and danced together at the café, called Amra, until war erupted in 1992, and these friends and neighbors began killing each other. Within a year, much of what had been the capital of the Soviet Union’s “Red Riviera” was destroyed and as the Abkhaz advanced, some 250,000 Georgians were forced to flee their homes, not realizing they would never be able to return.

Few places conjure more vivid images of delicious, cult meat consumption than Vari, a southern suburb of Athens, particularly the neighborhood of Vlahika. How, exactly, Vari became a meat-eating paradise goes back to members of the nomadic Sarakatsani tribe, who used to move their herds from the neighboring mountains of Parnitha and Penteli to spend the winter in this area, with its milder clime. In 1917, a few Sarakatsani families decided to make Vari their permanent residence. Later down the line, in 1962, Christos Goulas opened the first butcher-taverna called Tseligas (the name for a sheep herder) on Varis Koropiou Avenue (now called Eyelpidon, it’s one of the main drags in town).