After 12 years of living in Shanghai, we thought we had eaten our way through every nook and cranny in this city, but China has a delightful way of always surprising you. A friend tipped us about a great little Taiwanese joint less than a kilometer from our office, and since Taiwanese food is woefully underrepresented in Shanghai, we immediately planned a lunch outing to test its beef noodle soup and braised pork rice. When we pulled up outside a three-story Spanish villa complete with Juliet balconies and a rosy pink paint job, we were surprised to find a familiar sight. The distinctive building sits directly across the street from a yoga studio we had gone to for four years. We’d never even considered that it could be a restaurant – there’s no sign or indication that delicious dishes lay just beyond the front door.

At exactly the right moment, and not a minute sooner, lunch will be ready at La Cocina de Q.B.D.O. Generally, the magic hour of comida corrida – affordable, multi-course midday meals offered on weekdays and often Saturdays – is between 2-4 p.m., the typical lunch hour for Mexican workers. The comida corrida, also known as menú del día, is a fixture across Mexico and especially common in Mexico City. These dining options run the gamut from humble to gourmet, often depending on the neighborhood you find yourself in. But there is never a doubt that it will be satisfying – and quick (comida corrida can be roughly translated as “food on the run”).

Tucked against the back wall of the Expendio de Maiz kitchen are three massive metal pots. Containing cloudy mixtures of corn kernels and limestone water, they seem to sit unattended, when in fact intermittent yet constant attention is being paid to their progress. What is happening is one of the most ancient and important processes birthed by Mesoamerica: nixtamalización. For a people whose main staple was corn, the discovery of nixtamalization was just as important as the domestication of corn itself. This process of mixing corn kernels in an alkaline solution not only loosens the husks of the corn kernels, making them easier to grind, but also provides all kinds of additional nutritional value.

When Liz Hillbruner moved to Mexico City in 2010 from the United States, she found herself obsessed with tlacoyos, the little football-shaped street eats she saw cooking on griddles around her neighborhood. They were a perfect package of corn dough, wrapped around beans or cheese. As she ate her way through the neighborhood, she simultaneously enrolled in a master course on Mexican cuisine. When it came time to formulate a final project, it seemed only natural to study what was already on her mind. She decided on a map – the Tlacoyografía – a tool for the community and street food-loving transplants to find all the tlacoyo stands in the tlacoyo paradise that is the San Rafael neighborhood.

The restaurant that Inês Mendonça dreamed of can only be described using the Portuguese expression levantar as pedras da calçada – literally, to raise the stones from the sidewalk” –to create something totally new and groundbreaking. When Porto’s now-popular Ruas das Flores was being restored, the din of construction clanging as workers labored to turn it into a pedestrian-only thoroughfare, Inês was seeing miles ahead. It was there that her restaurant would open its doors, she decided, and it would be a place different from all the rest – relaxed and full of curiosities.

As women in pink polo shirts conveyed steaming tureens, pungent earthenware crocks and freshly-baked sweet loaves, it was clear that the Azores’ celebration of the heavenly spirit had a strong component of earthy sustenance. We were at a função (function), a communal meal built around bread, wine and traditional meat dishes that forms a central part of the archipelago’s unique Holy Ghost festivities, which take place in villages around the islands over the 50 days after Easter. “This is one of the island’s most deeply respected traditions and it’s taken very seriously,” explains José Álamo Meneses, mayor of Angra do Heroísmo, a jaw-droppingly beautiful UNESCO World Heritage city on the island of Terceira. “Only around 10 percent here go to mass regularly, but they fill the churches on the day of the Holy Spirit,” he adds, before joining 250 fellow citizens for lunch in a hall hung with patchwork blankets in the hillside neighborhood of Bicas de Cabo Verde.

You pass through the doleful Imeretian coal town of Tkibuli, wind 750 meters up the Nakerala pass and just as you catch your breath from the climb, you lose it again dropping down from the summit, for you have entered Racha-Lechkhumi, one of the most gorgeous regions in Georgia. We were first here in 2004, for an art festival organized by a local poet who had the unnerving habit of always speaking in verse. Since that mind-bending weekend, the regional capital of Ambrolauri hasn’t changed much. There is a new little airport, a few modest hotels, a couple humble restaurants, and a giant bottle of Khvanchkara that still stands in the middle of town, though it has been renovated. The vibe is as mellow as ever.

On the walls at Haritna Restaurant are homages to simple sights: a large gate, ancient Damascene windows – it’s a scene that hopes to inspire the very particular feeling of sitting in the middle of a Damascus square, down a well-trodden, old lane. For in Arabic, haritna means “our lane.” Also a colloquial term for neighborhood, Haritna evokes a sense of home for those now living far away. In fact, owner Loay Bakdash, originally from Damascus himself, had dreamed of opening such a restaurant while working as a civil engineer in Saudi Arabia. But he didn’t want it to be a place where people would just come and eat. “I wanted the customers to feel that they are in one of Damascus’ neighborhoods, among their acquaintances in a family-friendly atmosphere,” he says.

Christos Mplantis, a 37-year-old farmer based in Marathon, a region in northeastern Attica, has farming in his blood. His father, Alexandros, was a farmer too, and starting at the age of ten, Christos began joining his father at farmer’s markets, or laiki (λαϊκή), around Athens any time he was off school, particularly during the summers. Although working the land and selling at markets became second nature to him, Christos didn’t immediately think to follow in his father’s steps. He went to technical school to become certified as a plumber but couldn’t find a decent job after graduating. So, around 17 years ago, he found himself in a familiar spot: working next to his father.

Being a street butcher in Naples is not for the faint of heart. “Rain, sun, wind, heat, cold… being on the street seven days a week means knowing how to face every type of weather,” says Gaetano Iavarone. He is part of the invincible team behind Macelleria Iavarone, a butcher shop in Naples’ Sant’Antonio Market run by Domenico (Mimmo) and his three sons, Gaetano, Lorenzo and Davide. The so-called “street butcher shop” has a huge display of meat outside with only a small cash register inside. Also inside is a larger photo of Gaetano the elder, Domenico’s father, who opened the butcher shop 60 years ago. Domenico took over the reins 30 years ago and now runs it with his close-knit team of sons.

We were strolling through the Dezerter’s Bazaar building when a little woman, about 5 feet tall, interrupted a pair of our German guests with “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” Instantly charmed by her bright expression and linguistic dexterity, they stopped and chatted away in German. That’s how Tina Nugzarashvili became a must-stop on our Tbilisi market walk. Tina occupies stall number 10 in a building that used to be the epicenter of Tbilisi’s main farmer’s market, two blocks from the central train station. The old structure, built in the 1960s, was an enormous space under a tin dome crammed with mountains of corn and wheat flour, wheels of cheese stacked a meter high, plastic buckets of spices, pyramids of corn-fed chickens, and piles of fruits and vegetables, some neon red, others green and orange.

Surrounded by construction sites, Salı Pazarı – literally “Tuesday Market” – is a huge open-air bazaar in Kadıköy, a district on the Asian side. This sprawling market, held on Tuesdays and Fridays, is a snapshot of life in Istanbul: old ladies plow through crowds, their trolleys overflowing with groceries; vendors scream at the top of their lungs; and cars rocket down the highway along the front side of the market. In addition to being a litmus test of Turkey’s economic state and the general mood of the people, the market and the produce showcased on its stands reflect the changes in the seasons. In fact, as spring has been struggling to assert itself this year, only a few stands are stocked with the typical spring products on the sunny but cold April morning that we visit.

It’s 5:20 in the morning and while most lisboetas are still sleeping, Lurdes and Ermelinda Neves are already arriving at the Mercado da Ribeira in the Cais do Sodré neighborhood. Cooks and chefs from Lisbon’s restaurants start showing up at this central market at 6 a.m., and these two seafood sellers need to prep their stall for the day. On this April day, there are clams, both from Setúbal and the prized ones from Ria Formosa, in the Algarve; sea snails; the beloved percebes (gooseneck barnacles); mussels and canilhas (a kind of small and spiky whelk) from Peniche; and cockles and shrimp of different origins – although the best seafood usually comes from the southern shore, the western coastline also yields some excellent specimens.

Nine Inch Nails. Metallica. Tool. Rage Against the Machine. The driving beats, shredding guitar solos and iconic howls are attention grabbing to say the least as you meander through the colorful labyrinth that is Mercado de Coyoacán. From its famous tostadas and comida corridas to spiritual cleansings using Santa Muerte magic and all things Frida (it’s located just three blocks from Kahlo’s Casa Azul, arguably the most visited site in Mexico City), the Coyoacán Market is always abuzz with diners and shoppers, as many locals as tourists. In this case, the music is coming somewhat incongruously from behind an array of fresh-cut flowers: lilies, sunflowers, hydrangea, roses, carnations.

A tomato is a tomato, or that’s what it might seem like to grocery shoppers in Barcelona. But Karim, who currently oversees two hectares of organic gardens in Campíns, an area northeast of Barcelona located at the foot of the Montseny mountain range, knows otherwise. “We don’t know what we eat,” he tells us. “I used to work at other places dedicated to industrial farming, and they added a powder to tomatoes to force them to mature in a couple of days. There was a storeroom where we had to put on a special protection suit before entering [the greenhouses] because the tomatoes were sprayed with harmful products that could go directly to our bones.”