On Travessa do Monte, one of the friendliest streets in Lisbon’s Graça neighborhood, natural wine flows as freely as conversation. We’ve come here, right by the arch and with a narrow view of the city and the river, to have a glass with Giulia Capaccioli and Massimiliano Bartoli, two Italians from Tuscany who met in Venice and now live in Lisbon. The pair’s bar, Vino Vero, which they opened in April 2019, is the spring that feeds this natural wine oasis. To fully understand the origins of this wine bar, we need to go back to Italy. There, in Tuscany, Massimiliano’s brother, Matteo, has a winery producing natural wine – that is, wine to which nothing is added or taken away.

“Those who don’t know Etienne, don’t know Marseille,” insists a French weekly in a piece about the cult pizzeria. They were raving about both place, Chez Etienne, and person, the enigmatic Etienne Cassaro, who transformed the worker’s canteen his Sicilian dad opened in 1943 into a local institution that endures today. Though Etienne’s light went out in 2017, his son, Pascal, continues to carry the family torch – alongside a long-standing staff who have been there for decades. Aptly located in the equally mythical Le Panier quartier, Chez Etienne is home-style cooking served in a homey setting. Inside a convivial room divided by stone archways, the tables are packed with regulars, tourists and politicians from nearby city hall (including Mayor Gaudin) who tuck their ties in their shirt to keep them from getting splattered with pizza grease.

A legendary snack bar sits on a corner of Praça Luís de Camões, a busy square dedicated to one of Portugal’s most celebrated poets (his most famous work is the epic Os Lusíadas, a fantastical interpretation of the Portuguese voyages of discovery, narrated in Homeric style). The square is a major thoroughfare in Chiado and witnesses thousands of journeys daily. Many passing through make a pit stop at O Trevo. This tiny and perpetually packed eatery has historical roots in the area; traces of the old sign, “Leitaria Trevo,” over the marble entrance reveal its beginnings as a dairy some 80 years ago.

Mention “Les Baumettes” to a Marseillais and many immediately think of the prison that shares the name. Since the 1940s, this peripheral neighborhood has housed the city’s biggest penitentiary, where Marseille’s most notorious gangsters and French Connection collaborators did time. The prison is also infamous for France’s last execution by guillotine – shockingly recent, in 1977. For hikers and rock-climbers, on the other hand, Les Baumettes (whose name means “little grotto” in Occitan) is a gateway to the limestone fjords in the Calanques National Park. For Marseillais in the know, that entrance hides a unique place that is at once an eatery, escape and a voyage back in time.

For the first five months of 2021, eating out in Marseille was limited to takeout due to France’s strict Covid-19 measures. Some chefs managed to make magic in to-go boxes. Others became sandwich maestros – including 3-Michelin-starred chef Alexandria Mazzia, who launched a food truck with croque-monsieurs. When we craved company, we’d bring an oh-so-Marseille anchovy pizza and a bottle of rosé to the beach for a convivial picnic. On May 19, restaurants were finally permitted to offer outdoor dining. Resuscitated, Marseille felt like one big alfresco party, with temporary terrasses sprouting in parking spaces, abandoned alleys, even staircases. After the full opening on June 9, the city exploded.

The Georgian culinary experience is all about the dinner, stereotypically a glutton’s nirvana of singularly delicious foods stacked plate by plate to the ceiling alongside beer pitchers full of wine. This might explain why, after a night of belt-popping gourmandizing, there is very little in the way of a breakfast culture in Tbilisi. Another explanation might be that Tbiliseli are not morning people. Most cafes open around 11 a.m., which is about the time our neighborhood baker is slapping his first batch of bread in the tone. Nevertheless, people do break the fast at home, often with leftover bread and butter or a chunk of cheese, or maybe day-old khachapuri.

We spent our first few years in Georgia in a whirlwind of overindulgence, hostages to the unforgiving hospitality of friends and acquaintances. Try as they might to convince us that their wine and chacha were so “clean” we would not get hangovers, there were plenty of mornings when the insides of our skulls felt like 60-grain sandpaper and our tongues like welcome mats for packs of wet street mongrels. We would hobble out of bed and stumble to the fridge and, if lucky, find two of Georgia’s most recognized hangover remedies: Borjomi mineral water and matzoni, Georgian yogurt.

In the 1960s, Mayor Gaston Defferre proposed a plan to give Marseille a beach that was worthy of the Mediterranean port. Despite the city’s 26 miles of coastline, there were very few public beaches at the time. One of them, Prado, was so narrow that waves would flood the coastal road beside it each time the mistral wind blew. In 1977, the Parc Balnéaire du Prado opened on an artificial embankment, cleverly built with leftover fill from the construction of the Marseille metro. With its gravel beaches and grassy lawns, the sprawling, 64-acre seaside park was an instant hit. Now, the beaches – known as Prado Sud and Prado Nord – are two of the most popular for Marseillais and tourists alike.

Rua das Portas de Santo Antão is probably the most touristy food street in Lisbon. This pedestrian road is full of restaurants with guys outside hawking their specials and menus offering out-of-season sardines and frozen pizzas. But there’s more to this downtown thoroughfare than just luring American vacationers to overpriced mediocrity. Located on this road, buzzing even before the tourist boom thanks to its central location, musical theaters and local commerce, is one of the city’s timeless classics, O Churrasco. This restaurant looks different from the usual chicken restaurant, with impressionistic paintings hanging from its wooden walls and waiters in bow ties, and has been a camouflaged gem for many years, a particular favorite of middle-class families and theater lovers.

If there is a symbol of the adoring relationship that Greeks have with lamb, it is none other than the lamb on a spit that most Greeks in mainland Greece eat as a specialty on Easter Sunday. Greeks eat beef or pork at least once per week; lamb, however, is not an everyday thing but a treat, something more than just meat. The film My Big Fat Greek Wedding may be a never-ending fount of stereotypes, but it does get it exactly right when it comes to how Greeks view lamb. When Aunt Voula finds out that the groom Ian is a vegetarian, she says, “What do you mean, you don’t eat meat? That’s okay, that’s okay, I make lamb.”

Cervejaria Ramiro is the undisputed temple of seafood in central Lisbon. The 50-year-old business represents an old-school type of eatery: a beer hall where the seafood is fresh and cheap, with a choice from the daily menu or directly from the large aquariums that look out to the street. Taking up two floors of a late-Art Nouveau building on Avenida Almirante Reis, Cervejaria Ramiro is perpetually crowded. The clientele has not been affected by the recent urban regeneration of the area, which is turning the degraded Intendente neighbourhood, long affected by social exclusion, into a fashionable district. In fact, the restaurant was already popular in the 1970s, when eating seafood was new to the capital.

For Marina Liaki, Greece had long been a holiday destination, a place to visit family, soak in the sun and practice her Greek. So it was a shock when Marina, who is half-French, half-Greek and grew up in Paris, volunteered at a temporary refugee camp in the port of Piraeus in late 2015. The Syrian war was at its peak, and large numbers of refugees where coming over by sea every day. “It was so strange seeing the port of Athens, which I had always connected to careless summer holidays, in such a state,” she recalls. It was there, in January 2016, that Marina met Hasan Hmeidan, another volunteer who was originally from Syria but had moved to Greece with his family when he was five years old.

In the mid-1980s, a teenage Félicité Gaye left the Côte d’Ivoire to join her older brother in Marseille. Though their homeland had been independent since 1960, the siblings had grown up in the era of Félix Houphouët-Boigny, the pro-France president who kept close ties to its colonial ruler. “France is beautiful and there is money to be made here,” Félicité’s brother urged. Félicité’s plan was to get a good French education, and then put it to use back home. When visa problems prevented her from finishing university, the 21-year-old decided to stay, knowing her opportunities in the Côte d’Ivoire would be limited without a degree. She found work with a well-to-do Marseille family, cooking and tutoring their daughter.