We’ve been fans of the authentically spicy flavors of La Wei Xian since 2014, when we added the ramshackle restaurant to our Night Eats tour route in the Laoximen neighborhood. The stop was a favorite of our guests for years, but in August 2017, Mr. Liu fell victim to the redevelopment of the Old Town area and was forced to shut down his shop when the local government wouldn’t renew his food and beverage licenses. But Mr. Liu has never been one to give up, and he’s always got his eye on the bottom line. He is the type of guy who will spend hours trying to convince you to go on a four-day road trip with his whole family (totaling six members) back to his hometown of Zigong, Sichuan, in a Winnebago that is meant for two at best, just to split the gas money.

For Marina Liaki, Greece had long been a holiday destination, a place to visit family, soak in the sun and practice her Greek. So it was a shock when Marina, who is half-French, half-Greek and grew up in Paris, volunteered at a temporary refugee camp in the port of Piraeus in late 2015. The Syrian war was at its peak, and large numbers of refugees where coming over by sea every day. “It was so strange seeing the port of Athens, which I had always connected to careless summer holidays, in such a state,” she recalls. It was there, in January 2016, that Marina met Hasan Hmeidan, another volunteer who was originally from Syria but had moved to Greece with his family when he was five years old.

Our first New York encounter with loukoumades was under a canopied table, in a church courtyard, at a Greek festival in Brooklyn Heights many years ago. The ladies who fashioned these dough fritters, one by one, seemed just as attentive to the behavior of their (mostly young) customers as they were to the cook pot. No tomfoolery, their expressions told us, or no loukoumades. Since then we’ve seen loukoumades at many similar events, most recently in late spring outside a Greek Orthodox cathedral in Astoria. A line of would-be festival-goers, who had endured month after month of Covid regulations and cancellations, stretched a considerable distance down the block. Food, we’re sure, was one attraction.

For some inexplicable reason, leche merengada, or meringue milk, a traditional Spanish summer drink, has fallen out of favor over the past few decades – industrial ice creams and sodas, with their multicolored flavors, bubbles and fantasy frozen shapes, have seduced local palates, making this monochrome drink pale in comparison. Well, we say that it’s time to shine the spotlight back on the démodé but delicious and nutritious leche merengada and to revive a drink that was considered opulent in numerous Spanish cities back in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and documented in recipe books from as early as the 18th century.

When friends Paulo Sebastião, Paulo Pina and Paulo Neves decided in 2018 to open Isco Pão e Vinho, a small bakery-café, they knew they wanted to be in Alvalade, a Lisbon neighborhood at the edge of the city’s busy center. “We didn’t want to be dependent on tourists, we wanted a neighborhood clientele, and I have to say that 80 percent of the clients here are recurring,” says Pina, who has long worked as a business consultant, a job he still does in addition to running Isco. But the choice of Alvalade presented the pair with a challenge: It can be difficult to stand out in the neighborhood, which has an impressive density of bakeries, restaurants and cafés per square mile.

You are motionless, stuck in a traffic jam after a long day at work while your stomach growls. You know the rest of the family will be hungry when you get home and that the fridge is empty and sad. Shopping and cooking is out of the question, so you turn onto a Vera side street, zig-zag through one-way lanes to Tatishvili Street, double park, and run into a tiny gastronomic oasis that has been saving lives like yours for nearly a decade. Its name is Tartan. Located in a step-down ground-floor apartment, takeout cafeterias don’t get homier than this. The front room is taken up with a long counter of refrigerated display cases half filled with enough ready-made dishes to lay down a feast when you get home.

In the mid-1980s, a teenage Félicité Gaye left the Côte d’Ivoire to join her older brother in Marseille. Though their homeland had been independent since 1960, the siblings had grown up in the era of Félix Houphouët-Boigny, the pro-France president who kept close ties to its colonial ruler. “France is beautiful and there is money to be made here,” Félicité’s brother urged. Félicité’s plan was to get a good French education, and then put it to use back home. When visa problems prevented her from finishing university, the 21-year-old decided to stay, knowing her opportunities in the Côte d’Ivoire would be limited without a degree. She found work with a well-to-do Marseille family, cooking and tutoring their daughter.

Turkey’s rich regional food culture reflects its diverse landscapes: seafood, olive oil and wild greens along the Aegean Sea; wheat- and meat-heavy dishes in the country’s heartland; corn, collards and anchovies on the rugged Black Sea coast. But with climate change altering the environments that produced those ingredients, what will happen to the dishes they inspired? Will the way people in Turkey eat have to change too? And if so, how? Those are the kinds of questions posed by CLIMAVORE: Seasons Made to Drift, a thought-provoking exhibition on display at Istanbul’s SALT Beyoğlu cultural center on İstiklal Caddesi until August 22.

We arrived at Taberna Santo António after lunch, looking for a bit of warmth in the middle of winter. It wasn’t a shot in the dark – we already knew that we would be enveloped by a comforting hospitality at this classic Porto spot. The sun was shining, so we sat on the terrace with Pedro Brás, whose parents own Taberna Santo António. “We’ve been here for 30 years in March,” he said. And while nowadays the surrounding landscape is inviting – just around the corner is the Parque das Virtudes, where crowds congregate in the late afternoon to listen to music, chat and drink beer as the sun sets over the Douro River – that was not always the case.

In 2017, when Francesco Cancelliere and his brother-in-law Oreste Improta opened their small trattoria in Piazza Cardinale Sisto Riario Sforza, a splendid little-known square behind Cattedrale di San Gennaro, they drew inspiration from a nearby masterpiece: Caravaggio’s The Seven Works of Mercy, which was made for, and is still housed in, the church of Pio Monte della Misericordia, located close to the cathedral. First was the name of their new trattoria: Caravaggio. But they really leaned into the theme. “All the tablecloths and napkins were inspired by a Caravaggio painting. But it happened that napkins disappeared every day, because tourists took them as souvenirs.”

The Hacienda del Parián in Ocoyoacac, a rural village on the outskirts of Mexico City, got its start twenty-six years ago, when the local Ocampo family joined forces with other charro (“cowboy”) families to recreate a traditional estate. The idea was to preserve two very strong Mexican traditions that used to live side by side in haciendas: la charrería, the Mexican equestrian tradition, and rural Mexican cuisine. The estate they built is big enough to celebrate a wedding or a charreada, Mexican-style rodeo, or even both at the same time! It’s also home to a restaurant, which is managed by Christian Ocampo, who started working in the catering side of the family business before moving over to run the restaurant side of things.

The pandemic hit Athens, in early 2020, at a time of transition for Antonis Liolis. With many years’ experience in the food and beverage industry – after working in popular Athenian bars he went on to own a bar of his own and later two Thai restaurants, one in the Petralona neighborhood and the other on the island of Serifos – he was plotting his next move, and the first lockdown gave him time to think and dream and plan. Feeling nostalgic for his mom’s cooking, Antonis ultimately decided to focus on Greek cuisine. So he went on the hunt for a cook and the right location for his new restaurant, to be named Tzoutzouka (τζουτζούκα, a slang term for a woman who is cute, sweet and loveable).

The up-and-coming, terroir-obsessed wine distributor Os Goliardos is reached through a tiny alley that opens into a courtyard behind an apartment block in Campolide, a residential Lisbon neighborhood just north of the Amoreiras shopping mall. The company keeps a low profile, hiding Lisbon’s greatest wine storeroom in a narrow garage that counts several auto body shops as its neighbors. Since they keep odd hours, we were told to find a mechanic named Senhor Rui who would let us in with his key to pick up our order. We looked for him in a dark garage, where a man sat, listening to fado on the radio, beside a distressed Fiat. Wrong mechanic. Suddenly a large, smiling man in work clothes appeared in the yard jangling a set of keys.

Many people think of miso as the soup that gets tacked onto every Japanese meal. We can still remember our first experience of Japanese food in the West, when the waiter brought the soup at the end of the meal, and someone thought he’d forgotten to serve it at the beginning. Any self-respecting Japanese meal, just about anywhere in the world, will end with miso soup. The miso used in the soup is a paste that will determine the flavor of the soup. There are basically three kinds of miso: red (akamiso), white (shiromiso) and mixed (awase), which has a brownish hue and is the most common variety used in miso soup.

During the dry season in Mexico’s Mixtec highlands, when it’s windy, bugs called chinches (or jumiles in other regions) are ready to be collected from the epiphytic bromeliads – dramatic plants that grow on trees or other plants – where they live. “Children climb the trees, grab the epiphyte, bring it down to the ground and shake it until all the bugs fall from it. They eat them alive; and appreciate them for their spicy taste, reminiscent of chilli pepper,” write the scholars Esther Katz and Elena Lazos in an article that’s part of the 2017 book Eating Traditional Food. Scorpions, ants, crickets, grasshoppers, worms from the maguey plants – Mexico is the Latin American country where the most bugs are eaten according to Katz and Lazos.