The current Praça de São Paulo formed in the wake of a disaster: the square was rebuilt soon after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, and serves as a model of the architectural style from that time. More recently, this beautiful yet oft-neglected square has been given a new lease on life thanks to another calamity – the Covid-19 pandemic. Over the summer, chef André Magalhães took over the square’s charming red kiosk – the oldest in Lisbon – and overhauled the menu, filling it with traditional drinks, delicious sandwiches and petiscos. And since the start of November, the grocery store Comida Independente has been organizing a successful farmers’ market in the square on Saturdays, bringing Lisboetas in contact with independent producers and one another – a balm in this strange time of social distancing.

We have been watching Covid-19 sweep across the country like an invisible alien death fog claiming hundreds of lives and snuffing out businesses, one by one. Some restaurants intent on survival have changed their menus to delivery-friendly offerings of shawarma, hamburgers and pizza. To save her lunch counter, 34-year-old Naia Gabelia has also chosen delivery, but her strategy is not about what to deliver, but to whom. Amo Ra is located on the 8th floor of the Gorgasali Business Center in the Ortachala district. Since 2018, the restaurant has been serving the Center’s tenants with tasty alternatives to the neighborhood’s limited khachapuri cafés. Amo Ra’s bread and butter, however, was its catering service, prepared by a small staff of talented cooks and served in the spaces at its disposal to rent for events.

In 1949, when the patisserie that Josep Cudié had been working at as head pastry chef for a decade closed, his wife, Antonia Salleras, encouraged him to stop working for others and start working for himself. “Since you’re the creator of all these chocolates,” she said, “why don’t you just open your own business, making the chocolates and selling them to other patisseries?” Fortunately, he took his wife’s advice. Today, Oriol Llopart Cudié, also a pastry chef, is the third generation to run the business and – more importantly – to produce Catànies, his grandfather’s invention. Candied almonds coated with a special praline and bitter cocoa powder, these brown pearls are now one of Catalonia’s most iconic candies.

Pastitsio (παστίτσιο) is rightfully among the most beloved and classic dishes of the Greek cuisine. Its name, deriving from the Italian noun pasticcio, means a mess or a big mix-up. “Ma che pasticcio!” cry the Italians, meaning “But what a mess!” It’s also a musical term with a similar meaning: A pasticcio or pastiche is an opera or other musical work that draws from different composers. Likewise, from architecture to fine arts and literature, the term refers to works that directly imitate the style of one or more artists. Pasticcio, the dish, is also comprised of different elements and ingredients. The term was first used in Italy during the 16th century to refer to a Renaissance-born category of hearty pies or, more accurately speaking, pasties (because they are pies that are also covered on top with pastry).

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.

Giant sacks of organic Moulin Pichard flour are stacked high at the entrance of Pain Salvator. In the back of the boulangerie, the open kitchen hums – a baker rolls out dough as another one pulls out beautifully browned loaves from the oven with a giant wooden paddle. A third clad in a flour-dusted apron stacks the freshly baked goods on a metal cart, rolling it beside the counter in anticipation of the midday rush. For owner Nicolle Baghdiguian-Wéber, being able to glimpse the bakery in action is intentional, the “real effort that goes into making bread,” she explains. Unlike others who “display their breads behind glass like in a pharmacy,” she wants her customers to see “flour on the floor, hands in the dough, the hard work.”

The loss of the world’s first baijiu-themed bar, Beijing’s Capital Spirits, to hutong landlord issues last year refocused the spirit’s lens on Shanghai, where bars are incorporating the grain alcohol into their drinks program. Baijiu may be the most-consumed spirit in the world – thanks mostly to China’s massive population – but its name has only recently started to make waves outside the country. This growing recognition is in part thanks to the trend of mixing baijiu into cocktails. At Healer Bar, this blending of Eastern flavors with Western drinking culture is a deliberate choice that is meant to educate as well as inebriate.

Chirosfagia (Χοιροσφάγια, meaning “pig slaughtering”) is an old custom with ancient roots that takes place all around Greece during the winter season. Rural households – especially those involved in agriculture – typically bred a pig that was destined to be slaughtered before Christmas (between late October and Christmas Eve, depending on the region). Also known as gourounochara (which surprisingly translates as “pig happiness”), it’s a practice that guarantees a good Christmas feast. Although less widespread than before, this tradition still takes place, particularly in villages and on islands, and the slaughtering ceremony is usually a separate festivity on its own, involving music, feasting and drinking. No part of the pig goes to waste: The best cuts are set aside for the Christmas table while other parts are cured or preserved in different ways.

In the history of Neapolitan cuisine, the most important revolution, the one that transformed the culinary habits of people across southern Italy, is certainly the flourishing of dried pasta. Until the second half of the 17th century, Neapolitans were nicknamed mangiafoglie (leaf-eaters) – the volcanic land surrounding the city was incredibly productive, resulting in a large variety of vegetables that formed the basis of the local diet. But by the end of the 17th century, the ideal climatic and economic conditions converged in that bend in the sea between Naples and the Sorrento coast, where the towns of Gragnano and Castellammare di Stabia are located, to allow for the rise of dried pasta.

On the bottom of Janashia Street and Melikishvili Avenue in the lower Vera district, next to the staid Hotel Sakartvelo, there used to be an unremarkable joint, about the size of a matchbox and tucked into a cozy square, selling khachapuri and muddy coffee. It was the kind of place nobody missed when it closed, as we knew someone else would come along and open another uninspired khachapuri café, rinse and repeat. An Iranian couple tried breaking the jinx by opening an Italian-inspired café named Piccolo, but they eventually closed. Last year Shinichiro (Shin) and Yukiko (Yuki) Ito took over the spot and kept the name, although they offered something Tbilisi had not yet seen – Japanese street food.

When we published our first gift guide in 2017, our aim was simple: to share a highly-selective (and relatively short) list of products – some serious, others lighthearted – that our correspondents and guides eat and use, made by people they know. But in this unprecedented year, which has left so many of us grounded and brought travel almost to a halt, the ability to experience new places has been severely curtailed. Moreover, the various lockdowns and anti-Covid measures have hit the food industry particularly hard – the culinary masters that we celebrate on our tours and trips and in our coverage have by and large seen a precipitous drop in business.

The pandemic has inspired a new passion for quality loaves in Lisbon, a city saturated with industrialized bread. Baking bread became an escape for many people during global lockdowns, and the Portuguese capital was no exception – talk often turned to bread recipes or the desperate search for flour and yeast, which flew off supermarket shelves. Like in many European countries, bread has always been an important part of the Portuguese diet. It’s an essential part of the culinary traditions in the Alentejo, where wheat bread is widespread, and in the north, where corn and rye loaves are also found. In difficult times, it was a staple that fed many empty stomachs.

All things considered, bread is a relatively new arrival in Japan, having found its way there in 1543, when the first Portuguese ship arrived carrying missionaries and merchants who had come to spread the word of God and seek new markets. These Europeans brought with them commodities both tangible and intangible. When the Sakoku Edict, which essentially closed Japan to all international contact, came into effect in 1635, some of these commodities remained in one form or another. The vast majority of Japanese would never encounter bread during the subsequent Tokugawa Era (1603-1868), though the concept of doughy baked goods – pan in Japanese, from the Portuguese pão – remained.

When rice first arrived in Greece in the 4th century B.C., a result of Alexander the Great’s campaigns in India, it was initially used as a form of medicine, usually to cure an upset stomach. With these medicinal roots, it’s no wonder that ryzogalo (ρυζόγαλο, ρύζι + γάλα, with ryzi meaning “rice” and gala meaning “milk”), or rice pudding, is so comforting. But the soothing mix of milk and rice is by no means unique to Greece: Almost every culture around the globe has its own take on rice pudding, with countless variations in flavors – including cardamom, saffron, rosewater, almonds and pistachios – ingredients and methods. Generally speaking, though, this type of pudding is more often sweet than savory, and is usually baked or boiled.

Our water glasses were filled to the brim with amber rkatsiteli. After the toast, Ramaz carefully lifted his glass to his nose, followed with a connoisseur’s affirmative head tilt and knocked it back, not coming up for air until the glass was dry. “Super wine!” he exclaimed, smacking his lips and exhibiting the most sophisticated appreciation I had yet witnessed in the birthplace of wine. These were the years locals described wine as either “clean” or not. No one evaluated the nose or flavors because wine was what you washed a sagging table full of food down with, toast after toast, to the bottom, pitcher by pitcher. We judged wine by hangover intensity. The milder the headache, the cleaner – and better – the wine.