When Crescer, a non-profit association focused on the social integration of Lisbon’s vulnerable populations, was tasked by City Hall to create a restaurant that would serve the homeless three years ago, the association’s top brass had another idea. “If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime.” With this saying as their guiding philosophy, Crescer proposed a different venture: a restaurant where the homeless could gain professional experience and training that would allow them to integrate into the community and find a job. In other words, tools for a better future.

Walk in through an anonymous iron gate, halfway down a road you would assume to be completely spoiled by mass tourism, and a surprise awaits. Casa do Alentejo in downtown Lisbon is one of the many old-school regional associations in the city – but none of the others look quite like this. Many who come across this 17th-century building think they are visiting a Moorish palace, perhaps a remainder of the time Muslims ruled over Al-Ishbuna. It’s a misleading impression. In fact, this was a generic building that served different uses over its long history, including as a residence and as a school.

Opening a pizza joint in a city that’s world renowned for its pies requires some gumption. Maria Rosaria Artigiano, 56, the energetic owner of Pizzeria ‘Ntretella, which opened a few years ago, certainly has it; so does her brother, the brilliant chef Gennaro Artigiano. The beautiful restaurant they built together has quickly become a “new classic” in the panorama of Neapolitan pizzerias. Gennaro, 57, owns Locanda Ntretella, an old restaurant in the Spanish Quarter known for its excellent cuisine. Yet he is a restless man, always on the lookout for a new challenge. So in 2013, when he heard of an old carpentry shop in the heart of the Spanish Quarter, he visited the space and realized it would be a perfect place to open a pizzeria.

It’s a crisp and cold winter morning in Alentejo. We are in Mora, a one-and-a-half-hour drive from Lisbon, to visit Susana Esteban’s winery, a very simple adega where her award-winning wines are made. Susana welcomes us at the door and leads us inside, where, sitting among the barrels, we taste her wines. They leave a strong impression on us, and not just because of the early hour – the wines have a distinct personality, one that’s formed on the vine. Yet when we peek outside, there are no vineyards in sight, only oak and cork trees. That’s because Susana grows her grapes in Serra de São Mamede, a mountain range in Portalegre, one-hour east of Mora and close to the Spanish border.

We used to spend a lot of time in western Georgia’s Samegrelo region when breakaway Abkhazia was our beat. Zugdidi, the regional capital, was our overnight stop coming and going across the river to the disputed land in the north. Our local friends would welcome us with Megrelian hospitality, decorating their tables with hearty and spicy local fare that made us purr. The wine, however, with its sweet barnyard vinegary tang, was a different story. We assumed that this subtropic-like land, with its year-round lushness and mandarin, hazelnut and overgrown tea fields, was hostile to good wine grapes. We didn’t realize back then that the practice of making sugar-wine was not exclusively a Megrelian thing, but a Communist legacy practiced throughout the country.

Quick Bite: On this walk we’ll seek out the hidden gems of Mexico City’s famous historic district, uncovering them layer by delicious layer.

The seaside district of Chiaia, perhaps best known for Via Caracciolo, a boulevard with sweeping views of the Bay of Naples, is the most elegant neighborhood in Naples. Long the seat of the Neapolitan aristocracy, the area is studded with Art Nouveau palaces, elegant boutiques, and Villa Pignatelli, a house museum with an impressive art collection. But our favorite corner of the neighborhood is Piazzetta Ascensione, a quiet little square at the top of Via Ascensione (the Latin phrase nomen omen, “the name [is] a sign,” applies here, so be ready for a climb). It’s so dear to us in part because there’s a small, charming restaurant just off the square, one with a very distinctive name: Cap’alice.

Start with chunks of pickled vegetables and fruits, and then wash it all down with a swig of pickle juice on our Born on the Bosphorus walk in Istanbul, where we pay a visit to one of the city’s many shops that exclusively sells pickles.

In early September and October, Athens – just like many other cities around the world – sees an influx of young people leaving home for the first time to spend the next four years in intellectual pursuits and drinking coffee. Few among them are as concerned with what they’re eating as they are with other, seemingly more important matters, and so Greek student life is usually associated with deliveries of souvlaki, pizza and other minor domestic disasters. But for young people eating on the cheap, fast food doesn’t have to be the only option; local restaurants often offer student specials this time of year.

Dust, sweat, rain, and severe sun – these were only a few of the many discomforts that travelers of yore suffered as they made the long journey in horse-drawn carriages from their home provinces to Barcelona. In those days – around a century or two ago – the city was protected by fortified walls; it was outside of those walls, in an area known as Hostafrancs, part of the Santa Maria de Sants village (today the neighborhood of Sants), that many travelers and merchants found a convenient refuge – a place to recover from the journey. Taverna La Parra was one of the several inns that dotted the area.

It was a cramped but iconic tasca in the heart of Lisbon’s downtown. Its name, Adega dos Lombinhos, disclosed the house specialty: grilled lombinhos – thin slices of pork loin. And we mean really thin, almost if they were slices of wet-cured ham, served with a fried egg on top, white rice and golden fries. But it wasn’t the rice, the egg or the fries that made it special. It was the slender, delicate, hand-cut slices of meat. It was the miscellaneous crowd that chose to have lunch there daily: bankers and construction workers, marketers and shoe shiners literally rubbing elbows at the few available tables. It also was the charm of not even having coffee – “this is a tasca, not a coffee shop,” they would say – and only one dessert on the menu: a homemade arroz doce (sweet rice pudding), which was top notch, by the way.

After the merriment of sakura cherry blossoms has faded, bringing with it the dreary Japanese rainy season, the hot, humid days of July and August follow shortly thereafter. When summer temperatures and the humidity reach a point of sticky and awful, Japanese people tend to change their diet so as to shake off natsubate, the physical fatigue of summer. In a country where the main religion is nature-worshipping Shinto, most people practice the custom of shun: celebrating nature’s cycles and each season’s profusion of food. Loosely translated, “shun” means the height of nature’s abundance. Each of Japan’s fruits, vegetables and also animal proteins has its own shun, and in the essential and enduring wisdom of Japanese cuisine, that has influenced the preparation of Japanese food for thousands of years.

Growing up in Athens in the 1980s and 90s, weekend family excursions to a suburban taverna were an integral part of life. Back then, prices were affordable and eating out was not a luxury; in fact, it was a social necessity. It was a way to catch up with friends, enjoy good food and good wine, but also to entertain the kids. These tavernas were often away from the city center, in areas that offered a break from the gray buildings and the heat – usually with a large outdoor area shaded by trees, encompassing a playground and sometimes even a pond with small boats to enterain the kids. The food on offer was basic, but delicious – mainly meat (grilled lamb chops, etc.), salads, fried vegetables (zucchini, eggplant, potatoes) and dips (tzatziki and tyrokafteri, a spicy feta spread).

The Neapolitan stairs are ancient urban routes that connect the upper city (the Vomero district) to the lower city (the historic center). The most famous of these stairs is the Pedamentina di San Martino, a staircase of 414 steps dating back to the 14th century, which starts from the old center and reaches the Castel Sant’Elmo, on the Vomero hill. Along the way there are beautiful panoramic views of Naples. One reason to walk these Neapolitan stairs (besides the views) is to look for Totò Eduardo E Pasta E Fagioli, an old tavern with an amazing terrace overlooking historic Naples. The name is dedicated to two great masters of Neapolitan theater and cinema: Totò (Antonio de Curtis) and Eduardo de Filippo.

At Pollería Fontana, a cozy restaurant inspired by the owner’s history in a poultry shop, it’s neither chicken nor eggs, but rather family that comes first. The name, which means Fontana’s Poultry Shop, is a tribute to the owner’s family business, a store selling chickens and eggs that was established by chef Nil Ros’ grandparents in 1935. But for the last six years, Pollería Fontana has been a contemporary, lovely little restaurant with an idiosyncratic personality in Gràcia, a fittingly idiosyncratic neighborhood that hosts Barcelona’s highest concentration of small independent restaurants. With old kitchenware and trinkets strewn about, numerous family photos in black and white hanging and a casual but warm atmosphere perfect for small groups and families, the space is like a contemporary tribute to the Catalan culinary neighborhood tradition.