Settling into our first cross-country journey in Turkey many years ago, we were pleasantly surprised by the comforts of Turkish bus travel. The young garson wore a proper uniform and dribbled cologne onto our hands every hour or so. Tea was served regularly, accompanied by one of our early Turkish culinary discoveries, Eti brand pop kek – those unctuous and delicious cakes frosted or stuffed with everything from raisins to chocolate – the Anatolian Twinkie. Call us heathens, but we love them. We’ve tried many traditional Turkish cakes, but none we encountered measured up to the beloved pop kek. That is, until one recent visit to Fatih Sarmacısı, an Ottoman-era shop making our new favorite cake, sarma (the word means “wrapped” or “rolled up” in Turkish).

Back in the days when we avoided restaurants because they were mobbed with tourists and not because they lacked outdoor seating, when we greeted friends with cheek kisses and never cringed in horror when a person coughed, Vinotheca sold wine from its storefront on Kote Apkhazi Street. A few meters away, Aristaeus Ethno Wine Bar served dambalkhacho fondu at its dinner tables. The two establishments shared the same owner, Gia Darsalia, who also had a shop called Kalata that sold “edible souvenirs,” as he calls them. We liked Kalata so much we tweaked our Tbilisi culinary walk for a stop there so guests could sample artisan cheeses and goodies like gozinaki, a walnut-and-honey candy served only during the holiday season in private kitchens.

Japanese cuisine is often the art of quiet subtlety, and to that end, salt is one of its greatest supporters. The freshest of fish can be highlighted with a splash of the correct salt; cold sake drunk from fragrant cedar vessels is well enhanced with salt on the rim; and even tempura is frequently not dunked in sauce but instead sprinkled with salt by serious connoisseurs of fried delicacies. Salt plays a very significant role in Japanese culture and religion. It is a sign of purification. Thus most sushi restaurants mound salt on both sides of the entrance to show the place is clean and pure. Sumo wrestlers will throw salt into the ring before a match. Japanese people frequently throw salt over the entrance to their homes to purify their households. We’ve even seen people with packets of salt in their car.

So you’ve eaten your way around Shanghai’s delicious noodle shops and restaurants but want to bring a taste of China back home? Or maybe you’re searching for a weird food gift (pickled chicken feet anyone?) for a hard-to-please friend. You’re in luck, as specialty food shops dot the city and are quite popular with locals, offering a huge variety of well-packaged items.

Lantern Festival (元宵, yuánxiāo, or “first night”) is the 15th day of the Chinese New Year, and marks the last day of Spring Festival. This “first night” is actually the first full moon of the lunar new year, and in the Year of the Monkey it falls on February 22. On this holiday, it’s customary for revelers to light red lanterns, and in Shanghai, revelers typically head to Yu Gardens, a busy central location known for its Lantern Festival entertainment. Those looking to avoid the crowds at Yu Gardens may head instead to the International Magic Lantern Carnival taking place near the Mercedes-Benz Arena in Pudong, where innovative lighting displays take over an area the size of 30 football fields (with an entrance fee). But one of the most important ways of celebrating the holiday involves food – specifically, the sweet stuffed dumplings called tāngyuán (汤圆).

The only positive thing about the torturous annual visit we used to make to Istanbul’s main police station in order to renew our residence permit was the chance to drive through the low-rent Aksaray neighborhood. It's home to dozens of intriguing off-the-beaten-path restaurants, most of them opened by migrants from other parts of Turkey. On one trip through the area, we noticed a large, newish-looking sign belonging to a restaurant called Akdeniz Hatay Sofrası. Hatay is the name of Turkey’s southernmost province, an area bounded by the Mediterranean and the border with Syria.

Following a tip, we set out one morning to find Pamuk Usta, a legend among the chickpea breakfast-wrap-eating Antep-Birecik-Nizip diaspora of Istanbul.

In Catalonia around the summer solstice, we make one of our most traditional liqueurs, ratafía, for which the herbs, fruit and flowers that are macerated in alcohol must be collected on Saint John’s Eve, or June 23. This highly aromatic digestif has long been believed to have medicinal properties. There’s even an old Catalan rhyme along those lines: Ratafía, tres o cuatro al día (“Ratafía, three or four per day”). Different versions of the liqueur have been made for centuries in eastern Spain and some regions of France and Italy but, like the other herb liqueurs throughout Europe, they originated from the Ancient Roman and Greek custom of macerating fruit and herbs in wine, from Arabian perfume distillation and from the sophisticated medieval distillations in monasteries and convents that created the first aguardientes, or grape-based, medicinal liqueurs.

Churros, the long, skinny, crenellated, sweet fried crullers made from just flour, water and salt, have been enjoyed for centuries in Spain, with hot chocolate and without. However, in Barcelona, xurros, as they are called in Catalan, are becoming an endangered species. In recent years, more than half of the xurrerias in the city have disappeared. Many of the old-timer xurreros who still survive have the odds stacked against them: permit renewal for a street stall is near impossible; rent has become prohibitively expensive and continues to increase; or required updates to old infrastructure might prove extremely costly. However, we know of one young newcomer who has emerged with fresh energy and inspiration, incorporating lessons from the masters in his creative take on xurros. The best way to save this endangered species is to eat it, so here are our five favorite xurrerias, which make these star-shaped doughnuts with great care – and with delicious results that are worth seeking out.

Dear Culinary Backstreets, I’ve been hearing a lot about shark fin soup in the news lately, from countries banning the dish to people protesting government intervention. What’s all the fuss about? Imagine a wedding without Champagne. No popping corks, no celebratory toasts, no drunkenly giddy bridesmaids. Sounds like a nightmare, right? Shark fin soup is the Chinese equivalent of bubbly – only fermenting grapes has little effect on the environment, while the practice of “finning” has seriously jeopardized the survival of some species of this ancient fish. To harvest the goods, fisherman chop off a shark’s fins, then dump the still-living creature back into the water. Without its fins, the shark cannot swim and either sinks to the bottom of the ocean, where it drowns, or is eaten alive by other predators.