Galician restaurants have had a strong presence in Madrid since the 1950s, when the northwestern region’s economic crisis triggered a solid exodus of people towards industrial Spanish cities. This migratory wave, alongside the fact that Galician gastronomy was (and still is) considered one of the best in the country, meant a boom of new restaurants in the capital. It was in the 1970s when brothers Francisco and Marcial Javier moved to Madrid from Lugo, an interior city of Galicia known for its Roman walls, rainy weather and rich food.

On our first morning in Nicosia we sat down at a sunlit outdoor table in a picturesque cafe and asked the waiter what Cypriots ate for breakfast. “Pies,” he said, and brought us a selection of savory ones stuffed with olives, cheese and spinach. They came straight from the microwave – grayish-beige, overheated and sodden – and tasted like greasy cardboard. It wasn’t until we discovered Apomero that we realized it didn’t have to be that way. Hidden down a shaded side street in the gentrifying part of the old town, this tiny cafe and pie shop with its small indoor space and jumble of tables and potted plants outside has a much more relaxed feel than its stuffier neighbors.

Though it has always taken a backseat to Barcelona in foodie terms, Madrid, the sprawling Spanish capital, has upped the ante with its increasingly varied gastronomy and adaptation of new food concepts. As a centralized city, the cultures of separate Spanish regions – still a political talking point – is reflected here in a gastronomical microcosm: Galician eateries, Basque pintxos, Asturian snacks, etc. This, together with the ir de tapas in different neighborhoods, new avant-garde chefs, traditional taverns and a few imported hipster inventions, creates an interesting mosaic among the city’s already high density of restaurants and bars. Lavapiés is Madrid’s best-known neighborhood for cultural plurality, and that includes its food offerings.

Each morning, 82-year-old Giorgos Chatziparaschos’s bicycle pedals clank and echo down the cobblestone streets of the Venetian-era port city Rethymnon, on the island of Crete. For almost 60 years, he’s parked his bike in front of a 17th-century building where a simple hand-painted sign reveals his family name and his family business. By eight o’clock he has donned his apron and hat, and with the steely determination that underlies his work ethic, he begins to roll out the dough. Chatziparaschos is one of the only pastry makers in Greece specializing in handmade kataifi. The traditional phyllo pastry looks like shredded wheat, with strands as thin as vermicelli.

As one approaches the port of Ermoupolis (named after Hermes, the god of commerce), the main town of the island of Syros and capital of the Cyclades, one cannot help but marvel at its beauty and grandeur. Imposing public buildings and private mansions, marble-paved streets, a large Italian-style piazza and numerous churches make the city one of the best preserved examples of 19th-century architecture in Greece. This should not come as a surprise: in the aftermath of the 1821 Greek War of Independence from the Ottoman Empire, Syros developed into an important commercial, cultural and industrial center, as refugees from Asia Minor, Chios, Crete and other areas found a safe haven from the war on the small island.

All over Athens (not to mention the U.S. and other parts of the world), one of the hottest grains around is also among the oldest known to man. While farro, or zea, as it’s known in Greek, has been found in excavations of prehistoric settlements in parts of what was once Ancient Greece (the oldest, in Asia Minor, dating back to 12,000 BCE), in the early 20th century, its cultivation was banned, largely because it was cheaper to import other grains (though many incredible conspiracy theories behind the ban abound). Thankfully, zea began making a comeback about 15 years ago, and it is now popular again, not just in grain form, but also as flour for making baked goods and pasta.

The subject of frequent arguments over who actually invented it, baklava has a history as multilayered as the flaky dessert itself. The story may actually go all the way back to the 8th century BCE and the Assyrians, who layered bread dough with chopped nuts and honey and baked the result – a kind of proto-baklava – in wood-burning ovens. Perhaps carried by the winds of trade, different versions of this ancient dessert appeared on Greece’s shores a few centuries later. The 3rd-century-CE Deipnosophistae ("Banquet of the Learned") – sometimes referred to as the oldest surviving cookbook – provides the recipe for gastrin, aka Cretan “Glutton Cake,” a sweet that also seems to presage the arrival of baklava as we know it. The instructions, attributed to Chrysippus of Tyana, one of the leading dessert experts of antiquity, calls for turning various chopped nuts, boiled honey and poppy and sesame seeds into a paste which is then spread between two sheets of thin, rectangular dough. At a certain point, ancient Greek cooks started using thinner sheets of pastry, better known as phyllo – Greek for “leaf” – getting closer to today’s baklava.

The Holy Week in Greece is full of scents and flavors. Ovens work overtime baking brioches (tsourekia), Easter biscuits and melitinia, diminutive sweets that originate from Santorini. Traditionally, melitinia are made by women and girls on Holy Tuesday to be eaten on the evening of the Resurrection and the coming days of Easter (Orthodox Easter falls on April 12 this year).

Editor's Note: Sadly, this spot is now closed. The busy outer neighborhoods of Rio de Janeiro – locals refer to them as “suburbs,” though they are anything but – are full of old bars. Some of the best botequins (small, family-run establishments serving traditional food) have been kicking around in these parts for ages – but not all of them.

There is a certain rite of passage associated with being invited to dinner or coffee at a Greek friend’s house. Not so much because of what you will end up eating or drinking there, but because of what the other guests will be bringing as gifts. To most Western Europeans’ surprise, one of the most popular gifts for the host is a big dessert – the kind of cake that is usually reserved for birthdays or big celebrations in other countries. Greeks often arrive bearing big, rectangular patisserie boxes containing anything from a large cheesecake to ice cream- and sorbet-layered cakes. And of course, very often these boxes contain a pan of the Greek national dessert, galaktoboureko.

We know that there’s a trend away from gluten and carbs these days, and all we have to say to that is: more for us! In Athens, bread and pies still form the foundation, if the not the substance, of many a meal – breakfast especially. Make like a local and start your day off right with cheese pie or koulouri from one of our top picks. (These places are also perfect for a pick-me-up later in the day.)

Dimitris Kotsaris was more proselytizer than baker. Rather than a flour-dusted apron, this mild-mannered gentleman would wear elegant suits to meet with journalists, bearing two or three kilos of his famous whole-wheat bread as a gift. He was an ardent believer in the medicinal qualities of bread and preached widely that good bread promoted good health, once even taking his case to Harvard, where he delivered a talk about the role of well-made loaves in healthy diets. In 1981 Kotsaris opened Pnyka, the pulpit from which he spread his yeasty gospel, and gave the bakery the Greek name for the hill downtown where, in the golden years of Ancient Greece, Athenians gathered for the general assemblies that played such a formative part in the creation of democracy. It is quite fitting then that the first Pnyka shop opened in Syntagma (“Constitution”) Square. The bakery has since added two more shops in the city, in Exarchia and in Pagrati, the headquarters of the operation, and its following is such that last year a third was established in Vienna. Kotsaris passed away last year but his vision lives on through his son George, who has taken over the business.

Peynir means cheese in Turkish and peinirli (derived from the Turkish word peynirli, meaning “with cheese”) is a delicacy adored by pretty much everyone in Greece that strongly resembles the Turkish pide. It is a boat-shaped bread that is high in yeast and butter, with a buttery, cheesy filling.

Greece has a fantastic tradition of pie-making. Most Greeks have memories of their granny making some sort of pie in a big pan for the family to share. Savory pies are sold in individual portions in bakeries (which are everywhere in Athens) and sandwich shops, or even whole and frozen in supermarket freezers, much like pizza is sold in the U.S.