It’s a crisp and cold winter morning in Alentejo. We are in Mora, a one-and-a-half-hour drive from Lisbon, to visit Susana Esteban’s winery, a very simple adega where her award-winning wines are made. Susana welcomes us at the door and leads us inside, where, sitting among the barrels, we taste her wines. They leave a strong impression on us, and not just because of the early hour – the wines have a distinct personality, one that’s formed on the vine. Yet when we peek outside, there are no vineyards in sight, only oak and cork trees. That’s because Susana grows her grapes in Serra de São Mamede, a mountain range in Portalegre, one-hour east of Mora and close to the Spanish border.

Ènek poured a rosy-colored splash of wine into our glasses, avidly explaining how this particular Aladasturi grape vine was meticulously cultivated in its native west Georgia. In a tasting ritual uncommon in Georgia, we swirled it, sniffed it and savored the flavor as it caressed our tongues. Here in the “cradle of wine,” the land where viticulture is believed to have originated 8,000 years ago, wine is customarily poured into a water glass and “tasted” in one long drag, until drained. But in this cozy cellar in the heart of Tbilisi’s historic Sololaki neighborhood, seven winemakers have come together to offer an alternative convention to winemaking and consumption. They call it Vino Underground, but we call it wine heaven.

It is impossible not to look at the history of Quinta de Covela, a winery in Portugal’s Douro Verde region that has faced misfortune, gotten some lucky breaks and survived tricks of fate, as a masterpiece of literature, one that could easily be adapted to the cinema. In fact, the area around the winery already has ties to both genres: It inspired A Cidade e as Serras, the last work of José Maria de Eça de Queiroz, the 19th-century writer who is one of the towering figures of Portuguese literature. And it was here that famous Portuguese film director Manoel de Oliveira bought a large swath of property to prove himself a worthy candidate for the hand of Maria Isabel Carvalhais, the woman who would become his wife.

We used to spend a lot of time in western Georgia’s Samegrelo region when breakaway Abkhazia was our beat. Zugdidi, the regional capital, was our overnight stop coming and going across the river to the disputed land in the north. Our local friends would welcome us with Megrelian hospitality, decorating their tables with hearty and spicy local fare that made us purr. The wine, however, with its sweet barnyard vinegary tang, was a different story. We assumed that this subtropic-like land, with its year-round lushness and mandarin, hazelnut and overgrown tea fields, was hostile to good wine grapes. We didn’t realize back then that the practice of making sugar-wine was not exclusively a Megrelian thing, but a Communist legacy practiced throughout the country.

The typical Neapolitan trattoria is a place where you go to eat like you would at home: the cook buys everything fresh in the morning, just like at home, and then spends the rest of the day in the kitchen, which he rules like a maestro. For the quintessential trattoria experience, we head to Fuorigrotta, a working-class district on the west side of Naples. There, close to the border with the seaside suburb of Bagnoli and not far from the Cavalleggeri Aosta metro stop, stands Cucina da Vittorio, a small trattoria with a few tables and a steady rotation of regular customers.

When Cleveland-native Andy Husney set out for China at age 20 to teach English, he never would have believed that he would live there for the next decade, or, for that matter, open a Mexican restaurant. Husney initially came in 2012 for a one-year gig teaching English in Shenyang, located in China’s northeast Liaoning Province. But after that wrapped up, inspired by some friends and a desire to experience the culinary history of China, he made his way to Chengdu – recognized by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) as a Creative City of Gastronomy, the capital of Sichuan province is also one of the capitals of Chinese cuisine.

At first glance, Berbena, a restaurant in Gràcia, resembles a small, pretty tree with dazzling foliage – it offers a sophisticated and complex dining experience. But the restaurant’s delicate attributes, those pretty leaves, wouldn’t be possible without a carefully tended trunk and roots. In short, the basics matter, something that its creator, chef Carles Pérez de Rozas, decided after years spent in high-end kitchens. Carles had a culinary education par excellence: After studying at the prestigious Hofmann School, a culinary institution in Barcelona, he worked at several Michelin-starred restaurants in Catalonia, such as Drolma, Saüc, and Carmen Ruscalleda’s iconic Sant Pau. A job in the restaurant at the Hotel de Ville de Crissier brought him to Switzerland; he then spent a short and intense period in France with the great chef Michel Bras. In Japan, he trained alongside Seiji Yamamoto, in his Tokyo restaurant Nihonryori RyuGin, adding more notches of refined knowledge to his belt.

It was a scorching summer day in Istanbul, one of those days when the only thing you can imagine eating is ice cream. We were in Moda, and our friend Vicente suggested a stop at Dondurmacı Yaşar Usta – in fact, he’d been raving about this ice cream all summer long. So we followed him to the branch on Bahariye Caddesi, in hopes of understanding why he’s so crazy about it. It didn’t take long for us to figure things out. The homey, no-frills atmosphere and the array of creative ice cream flavors make Dondurmacı Yaşar Usta something of an oasis in Moda, a hip neighborhood on Istanbul’s Asian side, where a majority of the new food ventures springing up like mushrooms prioritize a shiny cool look over substance.

It wasn’t so long ago that no one would venture to Georgia’s Svaneti region without a personal invitation, and even that was risky. Isolated, sky-high in the Caucasus, nestled between the breakaway territory of Abkhazia and the Russian Federation, it was land of the lost, inhabited by a tribe speaking their own language, living in hamlets dominated by tall medieval stone towers used for protection from invading hordes as well as from each other. Ancient pagan-Christian rituals, bride-napping, blood vendettas and banditry defined modern Svaneti – at least when viewed from the outside. We had heard too many stories of how oblivious tourists would wander there with cameras around their necks and big tourist grins only to return in their underwear with their heads hanging low. Like Georgians from the rest of the country, we stayed away.

A neighborhood on the southeast side of Filopappou Hill, between Acropolis, Petralona, Kallithea and Neos Kosmos, Koukaki was named after one of its first residents, Georgios Koukakis, who in the early 20th century opened a successful factory there manufacturing iron beds. Gradually the area developed into a charming middle-class neighborhood, full of life and – up until the 1980s – a place Athenians charmingly referred to as “Little Paris,” in large part because of its bohemian vibe. The lower side of Koukaki has long been a students’ area due to the nearby Panteion University. Rents used to be relatively low, but after the opening of the new Acropolis Museum in 2009, the surrounding area has been booming, growing into an Airbnb goldmine and turning many locals against the trend.

The Algarve, one of the most visited regions in Portugal, also has some of the country’s most distinctive and delicious cooking. Integrating layers of different historical influences, from the Romans to the Moors, along with fishing traditions and countryside rusticity powered by its fertile land, the Algarve has made a deep impression on Portugal. But until Taberna Albricoque came on the scene, the region hadn’t been making much of an impact on Lisbon menus. Bringing the Algarve’s history to the forefront of Lisbon dining was one of the goals of chef Bertílio Gomes in opening his new restaurant. Albricoque, in fact, is the word for apricot in the Algarve, notable because the south has preserved its Arab etymology, as elsewhere in the country damasco is used (instead associating the fruit with the city of Damascus).

Ask any former resident of the Balkans now living in New York where they buy the flaky, savory phyllo pie known as burek, and they may very well direct you to Djerdan Burek in Astoria. Burek (also known as börek) is a staple eaten in many forms throughout the regions that once formed the Ottoman Empire. In New York City, though, most purveyors of burek come from Albania and Bosnia, and if you’ve ever ordered a slice of burek at one of the many Albanian-run pizzerias in the Tri-State area, there’s a good chance it was baked by Djerdan as well. Their Queens storefront is a homey sit-down eatery doling out plates of meaty stuffed cabbage and grilled Balkan sausages, but Djerdan is especially well-known among immigrants from former Yugoslavia for being the only Balkan burek factory in the United States.

The Neapolitan stairs are ancient urban routes that connect the upper city (the Vomero district) to the lower city (the historic center). The most famous of these stairs is the Pedamentina di San Martino, a staircase of 414 steps dating back to the 14th century, which starts from the old center and reaches the Castel Sant’Elmo, on the Vomero hill. Along the way there are beautiful panoramic views of Naples. One reason to walk these Neapolitan stairs (besides the views) is to look for Totò Eduardo E Pasta E Fagioli, an old tavern with an amazing terrace overlooking historic Naples. The name is dedicated to two great masters of Neapolitan theater and cinema: Totò (Antonio de Curtis) and Eduardo de Filippo.

Like many other Egyptians, when Cairo Restaurant owner Magdy Hegad talks about khushari, his eyes glisten with an emotion akin to love – but when he talks about seafood, the glisten is elevated to something closer to religious fervor. “We do it differently,” he explains. “Just try it, and you will see.” We first ventured to Cairo Restaurant with an Egyptian friend eager to show us the delights of a cuisine we had learned little about, let alone tried. As we entered the restaurant, it became clear that this was to be a very different meal than what we had grown used to in dining around the city.

Stretched to translucence by a series of acrobatic, table-slapping wrist flips, then stretched just a bit further until it seemingly must tear under its own weight, the palata dough passes from the hands of Myo Lin Thway. In a moment, other hands take over. Perhaps they fill it with minced spiced chicken, for keema palata, or perhaps they fold it instead into an empty square, soon to be the conveyance for masala-red curry. After a brief interlude at the griddle, the flaky flatbread is surrendered to still other, hungrier hands. Myo, in the meantime, has swirled a little oil on his tabletop and patted down another wad of dough, pressing it wider and flatter until it, too, can take to the air.