“A proper Rum house has to have everything,” a venerable chef once told me in Greek, the language that we have proudly spoken within our Istanbul community for more than 2,000 years. “Spoon sweets, lakerda, pickles, liqueurs…” He then puckered his grey mustache and switched into Turkish: “Olmazsa olmaz,” which is best translated by the Latin phrase sine qua non. Many of these essential culinary preparations appear in my novel, A Recipe for Daphne, which is both a love story and a meditation on the past and future of the community. But just who are the Istanbul Rums? The thoughts of my novel’s main character, Fanis, explain the term best.

When a tourist thinks of Greek cuisine, despite its vast richness, there are usually certain stereotypical dishes that come to mind: Greek salad, souvlaki, creamy tzatziki and, perhaps above all, moussaka, a hearty baked dish with layers of eggplant and meat sauce, all topped with a creamy, cheesy béchamel sauce. To be honest, I often feel ashamed of the moussaka that most tourist restaurants around Greece serve to visitors. It’s heavy, oily and usually nothing like the real deal. I hardly ever order moussaka at a restaurant unless I have total trust in the place. Like many other Greeks I know, moussaka is a dish I mostly enjoy cooking and eating at home.

Anthony Bourdain liked to say the body is a playground, a sentiment we couldn’t agree with more, especially when digging into the cholesterol-laden acharuli khachapuri or wiping a ketsi clean of its spicy pool of kupati – Georgian sausage – grease with a piece of bread. Shots of chacha and glasses of wine make us swing, bounce, teeter-totter and sometimes fall, and in the morning when the fog and pain clears, we may remember that the body is also a fragile temple requiring more ministration than a sacrificial bowl of tripe soup can provide. In Tbilisi’s Mtatsminda district there is a sanctuary providing both solace to devotees of healthy eating and penance to gluttonous sinners like us. No ordinary hummus bar, this affectionate “eating apartment” is called Mama Terra – Veggie Corner.

If you hadn’t read the flyer closely before heading to Shanghai’s first ever MeatFest in June 2019, you might have been a bit disappointed upon arrival. The sounds and smells of sizzling meat might have seemed like a carnivore’s dream come true, but the name was tongue-in-cheek; the event was thrown by Vegans of Shanghai for “eco-conscious meat lovers” and served only domestically sourced plant-based “meat” products. It’s part of a bigger push towards eating a plant-based diet in China, where vegetarians make up less than 5 percent of the population. But even at such a low rate, that still comes out to approximately 50 million people (a population larger than that of Spain).

With December about to lift its wintry head and amble into Istanbul on the heels of a rainy November, there’s no cure for chilly weather and pandemic brain quite like the classic, cozy offerings at any beloved esnaf lokantası (tradesman’s restaurant). From sautéed beef over roasted eggplant purée to white beans in tomato sauce to moussaka and stuffed peppers, there’s a reason the most established of these establishments have a steady stream of loyal customers: reliably good food at a reliably good price. The esnaf lokantası is the bread and butter of Turkish dining, and any worthy Istanbullu will know their neighborhood’s favorite haunt. The problem with Beşiktaş, a formerly working-class district that has become a hub for Istanbul’s student life, is that scores of longstanding eateries have been shuttered.

“You’re going to need this,” the owner winks, handing us a steak knife to dig into our colossal calzone. When a customer wanting a quick bite orders macarronada (penne topped with meatballs, sausage and tomato sauce) he warns that it’ll take some time since “we make our pasta fresh.” Clearing the table next to us, he teases a woman for not finishing her plate, like she was family rather than a customer. Fitting for a restaurant that feels like you’re dining in an Italian home. Tucked away on the sloping side streets of Saint-Lambert, Le Vésuvio is a slice of Italy in the heart of Marseille. For 20 years, Salvatore and Anne-Marie have dished up wood-fired pizzas and hearty pastas from their homeland. Garrulous Salvatore runs the front of the house while his more discreet wife – whom he affectionately calls “the boss” – cooks unfussy Italian classics.

The name of a food stall followed by “del Carmen Alto” has a particular ring in Oaxaca, calling to mind a whole world of stands, all of which are located in the two blocks facing the church La Iglesia del Carmen Alto, in the heart of the city’s historic center. It’s not entirely clear why El Carmen Alto is a street-food hub, but it’s probably related to the fact that, back in the 1970s, the Plaza del Carmen used to host a weekly open-air market where people from all over the Oaxaca Valley would bring their produce. This market turned out to be so popular that it eventually moved into a permanent building, named Mercado Sánchez Pascuas, where it still operates today.

There’s a Vedic-era (c. 1,000 BC) quote that underlies much of contemporary Indian hospitality: “Atithi Devo Bhava.” This roughly translates to “the guest is equivalent to God,” which is exactly the sense we get when we sit down for dinner at one of the curbside tables at Fusion Indian Restaurant, perched on the edge of Kumkapı Meydanı. Located a short walk downhill from Beyazit and just around the corner from the well-lit, tourist-trawling meyhanes crowding around the square, here we are greeted by servers with smiles on their faces and a menu boasting options to be found in few other places in Istanbul. The sky above shifts from blue to pink as the sun begins to set. The conversations of our fellow diners mingle with the sounds of the city, a convivial polyglot hubbub.