Istanbul’s eaters are spoiled by opportunities to eat great beans – and in the Turkish kitchen that means white beans, in particular, and if you’re lucky, the şeker fasulye type grown in Eastern Turkey’s İspir region. We’ve tried countless subtle variations on roughly the same recipe and, wiping mouth on sleeve after a bowl, declared that we could eat beans every single day of the week. We’ve spent a lot of time comparing almost identical-tasting Black Sea-style beans and hunted down those that are harder to categorize. Taking part in the bean discourse is a great pleasure of ours and we are not alone in doing so. Turkish newspapers regularly run features analyzing the baked bean, featuring inserts ranking the best beans, nationally, by a panel of judges. It’s a gas. In this roundup we’ve compiled our favorite beans in different styles. Though the gold standard achieved by standouts Hüsrev and Fasuli is widely agreed to be the best in show, we’ve included a couple of quirky beaneries in our list of favorites, because, in reality, you can’t eat the same beans every day.

We met Tega at a friend’s dinner table shortly after moving to Tbilisi in 2002. Tall, debonair, with dark puppy eyes and an ever-present Colgate smile, Tega made it a point from that first meeting to take us under his wing and introduce us to the best Tbilisi had to offer. That was how we first ended up at Salobie, near the ancient capital of Mtskheta. “This place is famous for its beans,” he said. “And its name is Beans!” he chortled (lobio means “beans” in Georgian, and salobie is “house of beans”). The restaurant felt like something between a museum and a summer mountain resort. We were in the original dining room, built next to a giant 300-year-old wooden house from Racha.

It’s fairly common for a son to claim his mother’s cooking as the best (especially in Turkey), but how often does he open a restaurant for her? Cihan knew a good thing when he opened Kitelimmi Kitel Burger in the Kıztaşı neighborhood of Fatih. Not only is the food delicious, but his immi (mom) Ümit cooks up fare you can’t get many other places in Istanbul. Ümit hails from the city of Batman, and the menu at Kitelimmi reflects dishes from nearby Siirt. Food from that southeastern region tends to favor meat, chilis, spices and sour flavors – a reflection in part of Arab influence that goes back generations ( a heritage which Ümit’s family also claims). On the menu here is pırtıke, a spinach soup thick with chickpeas and rice in a thick, dark broth tart with nar ekşisi and sumac.

Lately, however, those cravings can be sated closer to home – at Queens Lanka in Jamaica, a specialty grocery that also boasts a small but mighty kitchen and a few seats to accommodate dine-in customers. There’s no room for the weekend buffet that figures prominently in several of Staten Island’s Sri Lankan restaurants, but for curry, kottu roti and banana-leaf-wrapped lamprais, there’s no need to leave the neighborhood. Rasika Wetthasinghe is the chef; Suchira Wijayarathne runs the market. A helper assists with preparation in the kitchen a few days a week, and a number of the kitchen’s bespoke spice blends are prepared elsewhere, but by and large this is a two-man operation.

“Blue Monday,” the tune made famous by New Orleans legend Fats Domino and written by the equally legendary Dave Bartholomew, sums up how most of us feel at the beginning of the week after the giddiness of the weekend has worn off and reality beckons.  “Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday,” Domino sings, while the piano trills underneath his rich baritone voice. And who could blame him? Monday is a a day of toil, even in carefree New Orleans, where Monday traditionally meant laundry day. But from this toil, one of our most recognizable and renowned dishes was born: red beans and rice. Every Monday in restaurants and homes throughout the city, the slow-simmered-until-they-fall-apart, creamy beans, loaded with smoked sausage and pickled meat, are served over a bed of fragrant Louisiana long grain rice, often with a piece of fried chicken or a pork chop.

The Catalan ensaïmada is more than just a pastry – the sweet, spiral-shaped bread covered in powdered sugar serves as a direct link to the ancient Sephardic Jewish history of Spain and, more specifically, the Balearic Island of Mallorca (Majorca, in English). Despite the Jewish connection, the name of the pastry actually comes from the Catalan word for lard, saïm, and literally means “mixed with lard.” According to recent research conducted by the Majorcan pastry chef and culinary anthropologist Tomeu Arbona, ensaïmadas are Christianized relatives of an ancient Jewish bread baked on the island, similar to braided challah.

Few places remain in Athens with the charm of Leloudas – hidden between factories in Votanikos, the restaurant is located in an area you would not normally visit for any other reason. A few tables are set outside on the narrow sidewalk with a view of the wall of the factory across the street. Inside, old wooden barrels are lined up on the left; on the right is an old mural of a boat at sea, reminding us that this place was initially set up by islanders. Old family photos decorate the walls. They are stunning and feel like they could be part of a museum collection – you can spend hours gazing at them, trying to imagine what life was like in this Athenian neighborhood a century ago. Across from our table – a large round table made of a wooden barrel – is an old hand-painted grey wooden door.

In Japan, people opting for new year noodles will most likely pick soba buckwheat noodles. Often eaten on New Year’s Eve as “toshikoshi soba” (literally, “year-crossing noodles”), which are served in a light dashi broth, they symbolize good luck, longevity, and breaking off the hardship of the previous year. During the chilly days of January, however, we find ourselves craving a different kind of noodle to start the year: tantanmen. Punchy, oily, and spicy wheat noodles topped with minced pork, this gloriously fiery dish might not give us a long life, but it’s something we’re planning to eat life-long. 

“Did someone send you?” you might be asked, somewhat jarringly, if you find your way down the basement stairs and past the life-sized goat statue that marks the entrance to the Istria Sport Club. The restaurant, on a nondescript stretch of Astoria Boulevard, doesn’t advertise its presence. Its brick storefront looks more like an office or a private social club, which, at least nominally, it is. But any fears that we had stumbled into the wrong place were soon assuaged. “First time here? I’ll take care of you,” said Zlatko Ranic, who manages the restaurant attached to the 64-year-old soccer club. We soon felt right at home.

Flor Heras (36), co-owner of the Heras family business El Rito and head chocolatier of Reina Negra Chocolate, wakes up every day with the goal to keep chocolate and mole evolving and resurrecting with the same passion the Mayans put into the preservation of their myths. Founded in 2010 by Flor’s father Luis Heras Cortés, El Rito (which means “Ritual”) started as a brand that sold mole paste and traditional chocolate tablets outside of Oaxaca. Their artisanal processes favored the use of natural and high-quality ingredients, rendering homemade, authentic flavors. El Rito products soon caught the attention of local businesses and customers – due to their success, in 2017, Mr. Heras and his family opened a brick-and-mortar shop.

Happiness comes in all forms, but according to Aristotle’s scale there are four distinct levels to this particular emotion – say, for example, waking up to a glorious sunny day (laetus), getting a special discount from your local green grocer (felix) or watching your dog do its business in a sinister neighbor’s yard (beatitudo). Looking out the window, the snow-capped Caucasus along the horizon on this bright day, our eyes scan the city and settle over our own neighborhood of Vera, below. We sigh a sensual “yes” and nod smugly with our arms crossed because now there is a place in the hood where we can experience each of Aristotle’s levels of happiness in one splendid sitting.

Giovedì mezza giornata: “Half day on Thursday.” The writing in bold yellow and red on the closed shutter of the shop is not only a way to inform customers of the working schedule. It’s something more: an ode to the good old days when all grocery stores in Naples observed the half-day shift to enjoy a midweek break, a statement of respect towards unwritten “holy rules” and choosing personal time and human relationships over business. Sticking to old ways is what makes Salumeria Malinconico a special place. Yet nothing is dusty here; nor gloomy, despite the literal meaning of the family surname displayed on the sign, which translates to “melancholic.”

Upon hearing about a restaurant run by Turks from Bulgaria serving the specialties of Turkey's northwestern neighbor, we decided to make a beeline to Istanbul's Bağcılar district, where the neighborhood of Güneşli is home to a population largely composed of ethnic Turks with roots in Bulgaria. As soon as we arrived at Deliorman Kebapçısı and saw the photos of kebapçe and Shopska salad and an interior that looked just like the folksy home-style restaurants of Plovdiv and Sofia, we knew it was worth the hour-plus journey, which involved two metro rides and a fairly lengthy walk. Nural Can runs Deliorman Kebapçısı with his father-in-law and two other relatives.

Prior to the popularity of French bouillon restaurants in Paris in the mid 1800s, (restaurants that served a simple piece of meat in a soup stock for a good price) there was the French traiteur. A precursor to the restaurant as we know it, a traiteur (the word can roughly be translated as “caterer”) offers prepared meals to go. During the 18th century, many city dwellers did not have kitchens in their homes, so the traiteur was paramount to everyday life in French culture. Today, there are over 10,000 traiteurs serving the French population. The traiteur, then, is French takeout, but immeasurably better. Typically, there is no seating on the premises of a traiteur, but occasionally there may be a few tables. The window displays showcasing the various dishes are a source of pride for the owner or chef and serve to lure passersby at lunch time.

“People say, when are you going to expand? when are you going to change locations?... never.” Chef Selene Montero sits at one of the eight tables that comprise her restaurant Malportaco – a play on the word malportado, or “badly behaved” in Spanish. Multicolored ribbons hang from strings attached to the wooden rooftop that covers the sidewalk diners. Around us waiters weave among regulars, handing out Barrilito beers, aguas frescas and Mexico City’s best vegan tacos. “My goal is for people to taste something here they can’t anywhere else, not because we are particularly badass, but because I have studied a lot about how to get to this point,” says Chef Selene, who started out post-college with a marketing degree that she says made her father happy but no one else, including her.