In the 13th century, San Sebastian was a walled fishing village. While it may no longer look like one, Kofradia – a restaurant and maritime education center that opened in 2020 – is working to preserve fragments of that history. Located near La Kontxa beach, between where San Sebastian’s fishing port and a seaside entrance to the old walled town used to be, the project got its start as an initiative of several local guilds and organizations that work with small fishing boats in the Bay of Biscay. This is where the fish on Kofradia’s menu comes from, reflecting the quality of the catch, the commitment to responsible fishing, and the maintenance of the balance of local biodiversity.

As the 7 train clanks from the tracks above, the Queens neighborhood of Jackson Heights buzzes, serving as a commercial and cultural center for South Asian immigrants. Mobile stores and gold shops line 74th street amid kiosks that offer up passport photos and paan, an after-dinner betel leaf treat common in Southeast Asia. At the heart of it all, Merit Kabab and Dumpling Palace encapsulates the chaos in delicious culinary form. Employees from Bangladesh and Nepal walk by singing, as customers lean over the counter to snack on fist-sized samosas and sip on sweet chai. Feroz Ahmed, originally from Dhaka, sits in the corner fielding phone calls, armored in a fleece and snug cap. He has managed the restaurant for upwards of ten years. “They say the city of New York never sleeps. That it is open twenty-four hours. Ha!” he said. “But only here [in Jackson Heights] does it never sleep.”

For over fifty years, the historic restaurant Trattoria Il Delfino has been synonymous with tradition and quality in the heart of Sferracavallo, a small fishing village on the outskirts of Palermo. Here, the scent of the sea blends with the aromas of Sicilian cuisine, fresh fish is the undisputed star, and the philosophy of cooking has remained unchanged over time. At the helm of this renowned trattoria is Nino Billeci, who, together with his family, carries on a legacy that began in the 1970s. The restaurant’s story dates back to a time when fish was considered the food of the poor, and meat was preferred by those who could afford it. But over time habits changed, and Il Delfino became a touchstone for those seeking an authentic seafood experience.

In April 1965, Rocky Tommaseo and his brother, Tommy, teamed with Carlo Gioe and his two brothers, Mario and Giuseppe. Together, they opened Rocky & Carlo’s, a restaurant that would become an institution in Chalmette – a town about 10 miles east of New Orleans. But the partnership between these two families was already solidified by the time they arrived in southeastern Louisiana. “Our story began in Sicily,” said a younger Tommy Tommaseo, who everyone calls “Mr. Tommy.” He is the son of Rocky and nephew of the older Tommy. At 75 years old, Mr. Tommy is part of the second generation of Rocky & Carlo’s ownership. Two families merged, he said, in the coastal town of Alcamo.

A grill of sizzling coração de galinha (chicken hearts), linguiça (sausage) and churrasco (steak) exudes a plume of smoke that sets the perfect theatrical stage as a woman in a red apron swings from side to side, dancing to Brazilian funk. The meat smells delicious, too. Maybe just one espetinho (skewer) before we go… Sundays at Feira da Glória market in Rio de Janeiro are an all-out assault on the senses – and on shoppers’ willpower. The sight of fruit stacked high on tables is almost as vibrant as Rio itself.

Start with stale, leftover bread. Add to this some of Portugal’s most decadent, richest ingredients, and you have açorda de gambas, a dish that manages to bridge the gap between poverty and indulgence. The Portuguese are masters at transforming leftover or stale bread into new dishes. In the north, leftover slices of bread are dipped in eggs, fried in oil and sprinkled with sugar in the dessert known as rabanadas. In the south, açorda is a soup made from slices of day-old bread topped with hot water, garlic, herbs, and a poached egg. The south is also home to migas, bits of stale bread and fat that are cooked into an almost omelet-like form.

It's just shy of 4 p.m. on a gray Sunday afternoon in Istanbul, and there is a line out the door at Bayramoğlu, considered by many to be the best döner restaurant in Turkey. A sign on the corner of the building proudly proclaims the establishment to be the “pioneer of döner” and in the middle of the roof there is a human-sized model of a rotating döner, just in case it wasn't clear what the star of the show is around here. Inside are two huge dining rooms, hundreds of guests, and dozens of employees, who are running a tight ship across a sea of controlled chaos. There is nothing subtle about Bayramoğlu. This place is a juggernaut, spread across 1,000 square meters with four hulking döners cooking with the flames of high-quality oak charcoal, and two tandoori ovens (also wood-burning) where slices of fresh tandır ekmeği flatbread are cooked in seconds. When a guest leaves, their table is swiftly cleaned, and the next diner in line is quickly escorted in and their order taken: a single portion, one and a half, or a double?

Rissóis (plural) are half-moon-shaped savory pastries of peasant origins, and from grandmothers' houses to bakeries to the classic tascas, they are as ubiquitous in Portugal as cod fritters. However, the rissol is less popular than its contender, even though it is the perfect appetizer for any occasion, with a variety of different fillings which range from minced beef to shrimp.

The morning after a festive night brings familiar symptoms: a throbbing headache, heartburn, perhaps an upset stomach. As people reach for something to soothe their hangover, they take part in a shared experience that transcends borders and cultures, uniting humanity in the eternal quest for the perfect hangover remedy. Korea has its own iconic day-after-drinking cure: haejangguk, which literally translates to “hangover soup.” It’s a hot, hearty soup filled with meat and vegetables, served with rice. Korean drinkers often joke that the salty, steaming broth pairs perfectly with a shot of soju, leading to the familiar scene of someone drinking soju alongside haejangguk to cure their hangover – only to end up drinking more.

Mention Thonburi to Bangkok people, and they’re likely to picture a distant, suburban – perhaps even rural – enclave. But the neighborhood is located just across the Chao Phraya River from Bangkok, imminently accessible via river-crossing ferries, bridges, and the Skytrain, and is home to a less-publicized yet visit-worthy, vibrant food scene. In particular, one Thonburi street, Thanon Tha Din Daeng, in the Khlong San area, is home to a huge variety of excellent legacy restaurants and stalls, not to mention a decent market, all of which can be visited on foot – a rarity in Bangkok.

In Guadalajara, every sidewalk, corner, garage, vacant lot, food cart, car wash, and even bicycle has the potential to become a food stand – a restaurant just waiting to happen. But what truly sets our city's gastronomy apart is its contradictions. It’s both stubborn and traditional, yet constantly evolving. It belongs to no one, and everyone. It’s both sacred and profane because, while we take our recipes seriously, we’re not afraid to push boundaries and bring them to unexpected places. Case in point: “birriamen” – a mashup of the very local dish birria with Japanese import ramen.

In a city where dozens of new restaurants seem to sprout every week, it’s not an easy feat to stay on the culinary map for more than eight decades. Yet amidst the bustling streets of San Rafael hides a true oasis – a place where time seems to have stopped – a laid-back, family-run institution where fresh seafood and friendly service have been the norm for the past 80 years. Sitting down to lunch at Boca del Río on a Sunday is, perhaps, one of the best decisions we’ve made lately. The spacious, retro dining room is populated with a healthy mix of families, couples, and a few groups of friends who, like us, know their first mission is to order the ultimate Mexican hangover cure: micheladas and seafood. Afterwards comes a soothing cup of shrimp broth, savory and slightly spicy, keeping us company as we browse the menu.

Shinjuku’s Omoide Yokocho (“Memory Lane”) gradually grew from the rubble of post-war Tokyo, and has since become an institution of sorts. It started out as a black market area and gradually morphed into the narrow bar-lined, charcoal smoke-filled alleyway it remains to this day, with little in the way of real change since the 1950s. It’s not just the alley’s looks that haven’t altered much over the years, but also the food on offer – in the late 1940s, a crackdown on controlled goods affected the food stalls, forcing the vendors to switch to products that weren’t controlled, such as roast giblets. It’s a shift reflected even now, as many places continue to serve yakitori (chicken skewers) and motsu (offal).

We’ve never seen a place like Eater Food Club. Advertised as a food court in the non-touristy Saint-Pierre neighborhood, we expected a shopping center or one of the more modern food halls that are all the rage. Instead, we found a non-descript corridor that seemed more corporate than culinary. Yet in lieu of office doors, the hallway is lined with counters at open kitchens. Despite this unique layout, Eater Food Club slings standard food-court fare like burgers, bao, and pizza. Among these, Cha’houla stands out for its Comorian food. At Cha’houla, you’ll find comforting Comorian dishes like madaba – stewed manioc leaves – and n’tibe beef stew. “My greatest pride is sharing my culture,” beams the young owner, Fayad Hassani. Marseille has more Comorians than the island nation’s capital, Moroni, yet their cuisine is relatively unknown here due to very few Comorian restaurants.

It’s an epic love story between the Menéres family and the land of Romeu, a remote village in the region of northeast Portugal called Trás-os-Montes, whose name literally means “beyond the mountains.” Over 150 years ago Clemente Menéres began the family farm, and today the Menéres estate continues to produce certified organic olive oil and wine, as well as cork, with absolute respect for the land and the people living and working in the hilly fields. On our arrival we’re received by João Menéres, the fifth generation to lead the family business, whose infectious enthusiasm resists the high temperatures of the scorching summer months and the unusually harsh cold of winter. João leads the way as we explore Romeu, sharing a bit of the family’s story along the way.