In a 2007 essay for the New Yorker packed to the brim with wonderful imagery arousing multiple senses, the novelist Orhan Pamuk recalls sneakily wolfing down a hot dog at a büfe near Taksim Square in 1964. His older brother Şevket catches him in the act and proceeds to rat on him to their mother, who did not allow the boys to partake in street food on the basis that it was dirty and gleaned from dubious sources. Hot dogs and hamburgers were new arrivals in Istanbul back then, as were street vendors selling lahmacun and sucuk ekmek. The city was undergoing a renaissance in terms of fast food and street food, delicacies eagerly sought after by youngsters like Pamuk but reviled by their concerned mothers.

We counted ourselves among the cogniscenti on our first visit to Mangal Kebab, a decade ago, when we passed up pizza in favor of pide (Pea-day). Sharing the same section of the menu and baked in the same oven, but elongated rather than round, the Turkish flatbread suggested a well-laden canoe, until it was sliced for portage from the kitchen, with a chewy crust that curled around seasoned ground lamb. Over the years we’d also become acquainted with the kebabs, and the mangal – the grill, just behind the counter, that gave the restaurant its name. Mangal Kebab is a come-as-you-are neighborhood restaurant that seems easy to get to know, even though we don’t know the language.

We’ve got a thing for small, family-run spots in Naples, particularly those that are multigenerational. If a restaurant or bakery or producer has been open for at least a century and has always stubbornly stood in the same place, continuity and quality of product are all but guaranteed. Take, for instance, Cantina del Gallo in Materdei. Established in 1898 and run by four generations of the Silvestri family, this is one of the few real outdoor taverns left in Naples. Over the years, this cozy, simple spot has attracted artists, intellectuals, musicians, travelers and many Neapolitan students looking for good food at reasonable prices.

Back in the days when we spent more time living without electricity than with, when the police had the sole function of extorting money from citizens, and we were never sure whether the Borjomi mineral water we were buying had been mixed in a bathtub, there weren’t many options for diners desiring a break from the generic Georgian menu of those times. Of course, there were the Turkish steam table restaurants in Plekhanov, but our spoiled western palates periodically demanded more. There was Santa Fe, a Tex-Mex inspired restaurant we can credit for introducing “Caesar Salad” (with mayonnaise!) and “Mexican Potatoes,” spud chunks fried with a generous dusting of paprika, which have somehow become staples on virtually every Georgian menu in the city. Then we discovered a place with flavors our taste buds were no strangers to.

One day, or so the story goes, a group of tourists asked an elderly priest in Naples which churches were really worth visiting. The priest replied, “There are many churches, but have you tried the spaghetti with clams?” Even a man of God recognizes the sacred bond established between two people sharing a plate of spaghetti with clams in a Neapolitan trattoria. So we consider it our moral duty to advise you how to order your spaghetti with clams and where to eat it.

“Two kilos five liraaa! Two kilos five liraaa!” bellowed a young and exuberant vendor of tomatoes to the ongoing stream of frugal-minded shoppers making their way through the snaking Tarlabaşı Sunday Market. Hundreds of sellers of fresh produce, dairy, seafood, kitchenware, clothing, smuggled tobacco, jewelry, fresh baked goods and numerous other items set up side by side in the central Istanbul quarter of Tarlabaşı every Sunday, weaving an extended path down a backstreet that incorporates both unbridled chaos and strict organization. It is just one of hundreds of similar weekly semt pazarları, the beloved Istanbul neighborhood bazaars that offer some of the cheapest prices on the widest variety of goods the city has to offer, while at the same time serving as a critical element in maintaining the vitality of Istanbul neighborhood life.

There’s a saying in Naples: “Anything fried is good, even the soles of shoes.” You may laugh, but we wholeheartedly agree ¬¬– frying may have a bad rap in some parts of the world, but it can add a richness and flavor to any type of food (and, perhaps, even footwear). Think of a dull, bland zucchini or eggplant; when fried right, it becomes a pleasure. We normally get our fried fix by ordering a cuoppo, a paper cone filled with crispy morsels. This symbol of Neapolitan fried street food is our typical mid-morning snack – while going about our morning errands, we munch on the small bites of fried deliciousness that are swaddled in the plain brown paper.

This year saw record-breaking numbers of tourists descend on Tokyo, and a handful more Michelin stars to further the capital’s lead over every other city in the world. Feeling vicariously fatigued from all this attention, for the most part I tried my best to avoid both the throngs of tourists and Michelin-grade ostentation this year, though both proved impossible to elude completely. For that reason, my most memorable meals in 2017 were a combination of old favorites and unexpected discoveries. Ushitora: I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve spent an entire evening unwinding at a corner table in Ushitora.

The best pizza in Naples is a family affair, but perhaps not in the way you may think. Gino Sorbillo, the man behind the eponymous Pizzeria Gino Sorbillo, belongs to one of the oldest pizza-making families in Naples. In 1935, his grandparents Luigi Sorbillo and Carolina Esposito opened a tiny pizza shop with only four marble tables on Via dei Tribunali, the epicenter of Neapolitan pizza production. While this history is certainly interesting, the way that Sorbillo broadcasts it is what we delight in. Take, for instance, our favorite pizza, the Raimondo. Who is Raimondo? He’s one of Gino’s uncles; twenty-one out of the 23 pizzas served at Sorbillo’s are named after his father and his father’s 20 siblings (all were pizza-makers).

Pizza, as you might already know, was born in Naples. What you might not know is that in Naples, fried pizza existed before baked pizza. And although Neapolitans have raised pizzamaking in the oven to an art form, their skill at turning out fried pizza is even greater. As with so many local specialties in this city, it’s hard to say who makes the best fried pizza here; there are improvised pizzerias in every corner of Naples, street vendors that make a really good pie. There’s a saying here, voce e’ popolo, voce e’ dio (the Neapolitan version of vox populi vox dei), which means that something is certain – there’s no doubt. And that applies to Masardona's pizza being one of the best in the city.

When they come into this shoebox of a pizzeria that still looks like the pé sujo (“dirty foot”) bar it previously was, clients often ask: But where’s Chico? That’s because they’re expecting Santa Teresa’s most beloved pizza chef to be a rotund and cherry-cheeked grandfatherly figure, perhaps in a red or green apron to make the point hit home. The toothy-grinning and somewhat lanky real Chico is instead someone who likes wearing running shoes to work so he can sprint out of his kitchen to greet the passersby on this cobblestone street for which he feels such affection he turned down a proposal to move to California. (More on that later. It involves Sylvester Stallone.)

We consider ourselves fabulously lucky every time we snatch up one of the ten counter stools or the three-seater table inside the triangular shaped and miniscule Savoy Pizza. Up a few steps as the street curves around behind itself, this smallest of small restaurants is easily missed; the space seems carved out of the corner of a building, almost like the bow of a ship. The best way to find it is to look for the clutch of hungry people hanging around outside, waiting for their slice of Neapolitan-style heaven. It is the kind of place that one is told about and then hesitates to tell more people lest the line outside never end.

Watching residents of Paquetá Island between the turnstiles and gate to get their ferryboat home from Rio’s central Praça XV port is like watching horses chomp at the bit before their stable doors are opened. The 5,000 proud homebodies of Rio’s little car-less island in the center of Guanabara Bay are anxious to get back to it, often pulling tall shopping carts stacked with beer and snacks. There’s only one small grocery store on the island and what gets here, gets here by boat and human hands. The ferry is a destination as much as a journey for those who want to appreciate one of Rio’s most unique little corners. You’ll question the quiet here and remember that this city of 14-lane highways is set to a constant soundtrack of engines and “PORRA!” (Pronounced POU-hah, this is a ubiquitous carioca curse you’ll hear when someone’s mildly upset or surprised, a much saltier version of “damn it!”)

Guizhou is largely unfamiliar to most outsiders, but many Chinese consider the beautiful province one of the country’s last destinations unspoiled by mass tourism. Nestled between the Hunan and Yunnan provinces, Guizhou’s mountainous terrain has caused infrastructure development to lag behind other regions. Because of the various ethnic minorities that make up more than one-third of the population and who would often rather keep a more traditional way of life, Guizhou ranks at the bottom of the list for GDP per capita by province.

Roppongi’s Café Sakura serves as a restaurant and seating area for a bundle of businesses under the same ownership. There’s the Café with table service, the Wine Shop Sommelier (retail wines straight from the vineyard at considerable discount), L’Atelier du Pain (a Japanese-style bakery and cheese shop) and the French patisserie Coco Ange. Put them together and they enjoyably represent a Japanese take on the Western idea of “happy hour.”