(Editor's Note: The ill anti-immigrant and -refugee wind blowing out of the White House in Washington, DC, does not represent the America we know, nor does it speak to our experience exploring the world’s culinary backstreets. The cities and countries where we work – the United States included – have always been havens for those looking for a better, safer place. All have come with their food, making their new home a truly better place for us all and becoming an indispensible part of its fabric in the process. In their honor, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories of immigrants and refugees who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) If you walk the length of Roosevelt Avenue from 69th Street to 111th Street in the early morning, you may encounter up to two dozen tamale ladies, usually at the major intersections that correspond to the 7 train’s stops.

Berlin Wall No2 is a rickety wood and plastic-sheeting structure on the pavement right on the Greek-Cypriot side of the “green line,” as the border that divides the Cypriot capital is known. It’s overlooked by guards and is a five-minute stroll from the more stylish eateries in the center of Nicosia’s Old Town. But this little hole-in-the wall serves the best sheftalia we’ve eaten in the city. You could argue about whether these wonderful little nuggets are a form of sausage – what the French would call crepinettes. Two cuts of pork – backfat and loin – are minced, mixed with onions, herbs and seasonings, then encased in caul fat – the membrane that surrounds a pig’s stomach – and grilled over charcoal.

Between two simple slices of bread exists a mind-boggling array of possibilities – something not lost on Spaniards, who have turned sandwich making into something of an art form. In Spain, sandwiches go by different names depending on the kind of bread used and local custom. The type that’s generally called a bocadillo in Spanish and entrepà in Catalan traditionally comes on pan de barra, itself a broad category of bread, with varying dimensions, qualities and more specific names, including baguette, maybe chapata (ciabatta), depending on how round the bakery makes it, pistola (pistol) in Madrid and flautas (flutes) in Barcelona if it’s short and very thin.

Cities experiencing rapid urban transformation often find themselves suspended between past and future, with those respective cultures in close juxtaposition. The Santa Apolonia train station, a simple neoclassical building from the 19th century that once served as Lisbon’s central rail hub, is a good example of this; a visit to its north and south sides reveal different routines, atmospheres and of course, flavors. On the waterfront, a few former dock warehouses are the home of gourmet palates. Cais da Pedra, the project of the famous chef Henrique Sá Pessoa, is a modern restaurant decorated in stone, iron and mirrors.

Galician restaurants have had a strong presence in Madrid since the 1950s, when the northwestern region’s economic crisis triggered a solid exodus of people towards industrial Spanish cities. This migratory wave, alongside the fact that Galician gastronomy was (and still is) considered one of the best in the country, meant a boom of new restaurants in the capital. It was in the 1970s when brothers Francisco and Marcial Javier moved to Madrid from Lugo, an interior city of Galicia known for its Roman walls, rainy weather and rich food.

Sake is a very deeply ingrained part of Japanese culture and its function is everything from ceremonial to social. It might be surprising then to know that there are remarkably few establishments in Tokyo dedicated to simple sake tasting. This is perhaps because the roots of public sake drinking stretch back to the 1800s, when sake was bought directly from a seller and often consumed on the premises with bits of food. Back then, people stood next to sake kegs and enjoyed the brew, eventually turning crates and barrels on their sides and sitting to enjoy their drinks. Food was soon added and the izakaya was born (a sakaya is a place to purchase sake, and the “i-“ prefix means “to stay.”).

We usually steer clear of the touristy Old City district of Kumkapı, where you are more likely to be accosted by an aggressive maitre d’ trying to corral you into his overpriced fish restaurant than to find something simple, tasty and reasonably priced to eat. Sadly, in order to beat the competition next door, most of Kumkapı’s famed fish restaurants seem to have invested more in aggressive customer corralling tactics than in kitchen talent. However, tucked into the neighborhood’s backstreets, we’ve found a few hidden dining gems that locals in the know frequent. When in the area, we skip Kumkapı’s fish restaurant strip and make a beeline for Doyuran Lokantası, a serious little eating sanctuary on a nearby side street.

Julian Ramirez started out at the age of 14 as a shop boy at a busy bakery in Colonia Guerrero in 1959, then a bustling blue-collar neighborhood, easily connected to downtown by streetcar. Back then, at La Antigua del Guerrero, he learned the business: wiping windows, sweeping up and eventually making deliveries on his bike. One nibble at a time, he picked up the art of cake- and bread-making from the shop’s master bakers. Those trade secrets would serve him over the next 63 years and beyond as they pass on to his kids and theirs. Many of Mexico’s classic bakeries like the Guerrero operation fell one by one with the introduction of mass-produced bread, tearing at a staple of communities across the capital.

What's better than a day at the beach? How about a day at the beach followed by fresh seafood and a cold beer in a vibrant neighborhood with views to boot? Bar do David sits on a busy corner in Rio's Chapéu Mangueira, a favela that overlooks the beaches of Leme and Copacabana. On a recent Sunday afternoon, the bar's two floors and outdoor area were packed with locals and tourists noshing on plates ranging from feijoada de mariscos, a white-bean and seafood take on the classic Brazilian bean stew, to the Estrela do David (Star of David), pineapple-mint pork rib tacos.

Varinas may no longer be prowling the streets of Lisbon, yet they remain iconic characters of the city. Until the 1980s, one would regularly hear these women loudly advertising the fresh fish they sold out of baskets they carried on their heads as they walked the hilly streets around the Lisbon. “In the 18th and 19th centuries, there was what we call the ‘aveirense invasion.’ They were coming mostly from the Aveiro region in northern Portugal, particularly from Ovar,” explains Appio Sottomayor, a journalist, author and a renowned expert in Lisbon history. (This is why they were known as ovarinas and eventually, once the “o” was dropped, varinas.) 

When a menu is written only in Chinese characters, it presents a language barrier for foreigners. When a restaurant offers a Mandarin-only menu and requires diners to handwrite their order in characters, that molehill becomes an actual mountain. But Zhang Mama doesn’t care – diners have been queuing up for upwards of an hour outside the dingy hutong restaurant for a bite of its Sichuan cuisine since it opened in 2009. Why? It’s equal parts delicious and cheap. Demand got so high for this hole-in-the-wall shop that they opened two more shops, one just down the street from the Dongcheng district original and another in Chaoyang district. But it’s still not easy to get a seat during peak mealtimes.

On our way to dinner one Friday evening, we hopped in a cab headed for Tarlabaşı, a rather infamous neighborhood in the dead center of Istanbul in which many people still refuse to set foot. The area was a longtime hotbed of Greek and Armenian artisans and tradesmen, once the backbone of Ottoman-era Istanbul’s commercial life, who erected rows of gorgeous European-style apartment buildings beginning in the 19th century. Many stand proudly today, while dozens of others are fenced off and awaiting renovation as part of an invasive gentrification project that seeks to remodel the now decrepit, impoverished Tarlabaşı. By the end of 1970s, Tarlabaşı's Greeks and Armenians had packed up and left the neighborhood and the country, following difficult decades of anti-minority policies and attacks. In their place came a motley crew of other disenfranchised people: Kurds fleeing conflict in the southeast of the country, Roma living on the fringes of society, transgender sex workers, economic migrants and political refugees.

Through the gate on Kallidromiou and down the steps, the enchanting stone-paved courtyard at last reveals itself, a hidden oasis of fragrant lemon trees, geraniums, bougainvillea and jasmine in this densely built neighborhood. A charming mural of children in class is painted on one side of the yard, right next to the water fountains that thirsty students used to run to during their break. Inside, walls are decorated with old black-and-white photos from the school’s archives. A modern mezedopoleio housed in a historical neoclassical building, Ama Lachi stis Nefelis (If by Chance at Nefeli’s) holds the unusual distinction of being the former public primary school of Exarchia.

In Rio, only specialty beer bars usually have a touch of sophistication, and generally, the beer there is much more expensive (mainly because of the high tariff on imported hops), the regulars are more demanding and the food is made by a “chef.” This in contrast to the humble botequim, the traditional family-run bars that serve simple snacks. But Hocus Pocus DNA strikes a balance between the two: it’s a brand-new bar with a botequim soul that slings craft beers and thoughtfully conceived appetizers to go with them. It’s also the name of an acclaimed artisanal brewery – one of the best local breweries in town, in fact, operating in Rio since 2014 – whose products are sold only in specialty stores and bars.

To call San Miguel de Allende mind-blowingly picturesque is no hyperbole. Cobblestone streets and colonial facades enchant and inspire romantic notions from even the greatest cynic. Called by some “Mexico’s Disneyland for adults,” it’s a coveted destination for lavish fairytale weddings and romantic getaways and for expats and snowbirds to pass the time under azure skies in its dry, temperate climate. The historic center is peppered with fine-dining restaurants, stylish eateries, hipster pop-ups and cafés with picture-perfect open-air terraces. Its weekly farmers’ market rivals those of the “foodiest” towns in the US. So what about the “real” San Miguel?