Greeks love going out till late, even on weekdays, so it’s no surprise that Athens is legendary for its nightlife. There are bars to suit every taste: bars with a great view, bars by the sea, mainstream bars, bars with great cocktails or music, etc. But for us, the really special bars are the ones that fly under the radar, bars that feel like a real discovery. We’ve done our homework and found some of the best of these “hidden” bars. Just between us, of course.

Drive west of Tbilisi for about an hour on the backroad to Gori and you will find yourself in the heart of the Shida Kartli wine region. It is an awesome expanse of plains, rolling hills, jagged ridges and hidden valleys that provide a myriad of terroirs that grow some of Georgia’s most exclusive grapes. In ancient times, these were the grapes for the wine of kings. On a warm spring afternoon, Andro Barnovi was tying up vines to the trellises in his vineyard and nursery, four hectares of hearty, clayey soil in Tsedisi, a remote Kartli village 810 meters above sea level. Part of the Ateni wine region, Tsedisi is said to have the richest soil and best microclimate in the area.

Something special happens when the sun goes down. Night markets, whether in Southeast Asia or in the heart of Queens, inspire a thrill — we call it a sense of wonder — that brings boundless childhood summers to mind. We still feel it, on warm-weather Saturdays, when we ride the elevated 7 train to the Queens International Night Market. (It's a pain to park anything bigger than a bicycle near the market; we always take public transportation.) Many of the other passengers seem to be headed our way. Surrounded by fellow pilgrims, our anticipation builds as we descend from the train platform and march south. As we near the market grounds, and as the wind freshens and comes about, perhaps we catch the scent of sizzling meat.

Entering Central de Cacao, one might think it any other café in the hip neighborhood of Roma Sur. Sitting upon stools, customers hunch over their laptops, sipping from steaming mugs. A wide, beautiful geometric design hangs on the high wall behind the counter. To the left of the entryway, colorful products for sale line a stack of long shelves. But upon closer inspection, the sweet nature of the cafe and store reveals itself. The contents of the steaming mug: chocolate. The geometric design behind the counter: molinillos, or traditional Oaxacan chocolate whisks. The products on the shelves: all chocolate. Chocolate-infused honey. 100 percent chocolate bars.

What the taco stand is to Mexico City or the wok-wielding hawker to Bangkok, the Würstelstand is to Vienna. At any time of day or night, people line up to snack on a quick sausage, with a pickle, mustard and a can of beer. There is an astonishing variety of sausages to choose from – from well-known Vienna sausage to Waldvierter, a twice-smoked sausage made from pig’s head, from spicy Burenwurst to Käsekrainer. The last one is for many locals the king of the Wurst: a coarse sausage filled with pockets of hot, melted cheese that ideally form a crispy crust on the outside once the sausage has been grilled.

The calango is a tiny lizard commonly found in the hottest, driest and poorest parts of Brazil’s Northeastern countryside, and in popular culture, the calango is also a symbol of hunger. Someone who eats calango is driven to do so because he has nothing else to eat. Thankfully, at Kalango there’s plenty to eat. Kalango (the “K” is for chef Kátia Barbosa, owner also of Aconchego Carioca) is a spartan botequim, or small gastropub, located near downtown that serves the specialties of Brazil’s Northeast states. This comida sertaneja, as it’s called, is very hard to find in Rio.

There are certain places that experience the strange phenomenon where everything and nothing change at the same time. Take the example of El Racó del Mariner (The Sailor’s Corner), located for 40 years at the old fishermen’s dock in the port of La Barceloneta until it was forced to move when the area was turned into a marina for luxury yachts. Regardless, even at its new address in the modern Port Fórum area, reaching El Racó del Mariner requires that you cross a port police checkpoint, just as you had to at the old spot.

When Tonkatsu Hamachan first opened in 2001, it became an industry favorite – one of those places chefs, foodies and lifestyle journalists kept to themselves. Perhaps they closely guarded this spot because the dining room barely fit six tables, most of which were usually occupied by Japanese businessmen. The restaurant itself refrained from self-promotion – the shoji screen with hiragana script and a frosted glass door would have been as illustrative as a blank canvas to the mostly Japanese-illiterate pedestrians in the expat-friendly enclave of Jing’an. We lived just two blocks away from Hamachan for over a year when we first moved to Shanghai in 2007 and didn’t know about the tonkatsu genius until a friend drunkenly whispered the secret to us one night.

Though it’s an age-old method for preservation and flavor enhancement all over the world, the smoking of meat, fish, and cheese is not a notable tradition in southern Europe. In Portugal, in the old days, salt curing was more common – particularly for the national staple, cod. However, the presence of smoking traditions in the north, particularly around the Minho river, indicates the possibility that the Vikings’ favorite method for cooking fish may have reached all the way to the northeastern Iberian peninsula.

Georgians – that is, Georgians who hail from the former Soviet republic and not the American South – love their cheesy khachapuri and their beef-and-lamb-filled khinkali. At a glatt kosher restaurant, however, dairy items and meat items can't mingle, either in the kitchen or in the dining room, and many such establishments serve only one or the other. Marani takes a second approach: two kitchens, two dining rooms, two sets of dishes. It's possible to enjoy a progressive dinner under a single roof, first with khachapuri in a basement bakery that resembles a spartan pizzeria, then with a succession of appetizers, skewers and entrees in the more formal setting upstairs.

Inside Barcelona’s lesser-known Mercat de Les Corts is a small, unassuming bar offering up the bounty of the Mediterranean. El Bisaura opens up shop at 6:30 a.m., serving esmorzars de forquilla (hearty Catalan breakfasts like sausage and beans, tripe stew and grilled cuttlefish) to local workers. At lunch, it serves a more refined seafood menu composed of whatever owner Alfonso Puig gets from Peixateria Anna, the fish stand on the other side of the market. The fish and seafood of the day are always seasonal, local and impeccably fresh – which is no surprise, since Puig is also the owner of the fish stand.

Sitting at a table in Lucio, a long-established tavern in the heart of Madrid’s most famous tapas street, is a singular experience that has a slightly surreal, Buñuel-esque touch. Queues formed of Madrid’s born-and-bred elite snake past the elegant wooden bar, the coiffed connoisseurs greeted with affection by the landlord himself as they wait to eat his restaurant’s specialty dish. Lucio’s signature white suit and the hushed, apparent dignity of the place are quite a contrast to the actual holy grail itself: a plate of fried eggs and fries. The eponymous owner keeps repeating in a whisper that this is the most famous restaurant in all of Spain; perhaps it truly is.

Asking cariocas if they remember their first Biscoito Globo, the ubiquitous, crunchy beach snack, is like asking anyone who teethed in the United States if they remember trying Cheerios for the first time. Globo biscuits and sweet iced mate are to Rio's beaches what hot dogs and beer are to American baseball stadiums. Calls of “Ó Globo! Ó mate!” are the soundtrack along the shores of Copacabana, Ipanema and Leblon. The iconic packaging, which features a globe-headed mascot surrounded by the Eiffel Tower, the Tower of Pisa, Portugal's Belém Tower and Rio's Sugarloaf, has been reproduced on t-shirts, tote bags, and cangas (sarongs).