A popular dessert in Naples and beyond, the zeppola di San Giuseppe, a deep-fried cream puff, is traditionally eaten on the Feast of St. Joseph (also called St. Joseph’s Day), on March 19, which is also when Father’s Day is celebrated in Italy. On this day, each Neapolitan traditionally eats several zeppole, despite their enormous size and rich filling. I have seen some that, with the addition of cream puffs, cream (inside and outside) and black cherries, weighed almost half a kilo.

Anchoa, boquerón and bocarte: These names – in Spanish, Basque and Catalan, respectively – all describe the same little fish, the anchovy, and to make matters more confusing, the names also indicate how the fish is prepared, depending on what region you’re in. For a Basque native, “anchoa” refers to the fresh fish and the brown cured fillets; a “boquerón” can only mean an anchovy fillet marinated in vinegar. For other northerners, like Cantabrians and Galicians, the fresh fish is usually “bocarte,” while white, marinated anchovies are “boquerones,” and “anchoas” are only the expensive salt-cured brown delicacy preserved in olive oil.

As I sit down to write this on Tuesday, March 17, I am feeling uncomfortable. In truth, that’s mainly because I am overly full. Earlier, I cycled across town to a neighborhood I’ve never visited because a friend and I absolutely had to eat matcha cheesecake. We had been ogling it salaciously on Instagram and decided today was to be the day. Nowadays, lunches or café visits are done in small groups – normally just one-on-one with plenty of hand sanitizer. Home parties are on the rise. Uber Eats is apparently doing major business. I just passed a delivery man sleeping in the sun in the park. Exhaustion perhaps? Or making the most of spring, which is finally here?

I didn’t take the coronavirus seriously at first. In fact, its severity didn’t hit me until a few days ago. Earlier this month I was in Berlin, visiting my brother. The city’s tourism fair was abruptly canceled as a result of the virus, but we weren’t worried. We went out at night, eating and drinking and having a good time, as one does in this capital of debauchery. Upon return to Istanbul, I still wasn’t particularly concerned. There still had not been a case of the virus confirmed in Turkey at that point. I went on a gastronomic trip to Nevşehir and Kırşehir where I feasted on Central Anatolia’s delicious regional specialties and enjoyed numerous bottles of the Cappadocia region’s famous wine.

Covid-19 officially arrived in Georgia on February 26 with a Georgian man who had traveled home overland from Iran. That and international news coverage provoked a mad rush on face masks and an initial panic raid at several supermarkets. The government warned us to stop kissing when we greet each other and extended the springtime school holiday by a week. By March 6, a dozen Georgians had contracted the virus and the global death toll was in the thousands; we spent that evening with a few dozen people around a big table at Sulico Wine Bar tasting chacha, laughing and clinking our shot glasses to its antiseptic powers.

This past Friday I wrote the following reflection on how Marseille is coping with the coronavirus crisis: “Marseille’s most visited monument, Notre Dame de la Garde, hasn’t seen a decline in visitors to her golden beacon. At La Samaritaine, the iconic Vieux Port café, locals pack the terrace to soak up the sun. And, when taking public transit, I rarely spot a face mask. Unlike the empty piazzas in Milan and the masked subway riders in NYC, it’s been smooth sailing in this port city.” That was clearly the calm before the Covid-19 storm.

Thursday, March 12, 11 a.m. My butt muscles start to hurt. I’ve been sitting for too many days, testing the resistance of Italian sofas (a small spot of national pride at a time when the rest of the world is scared of Italy). It is the fifth day of being confined indoors. We are following the #iorestoacasa (“I Stay Home”) decree of the government. In just four days everything has changed. Nobody dares to say, “It’s all an exaggeration.” Now the numbers are a confirmation – for some strange reason Italy has the highest number of infected people in the world after China.

In Spain, preserving the rituals of Lent – historically a period of 40 days of prayer, penance and pious abstinence from eating meat that leads up to Easter – was up until the second half of the 20th century mostly the responsibility of priests. Nowadays, however, it is more often the country’s chefs who are shaping the observance of Lent, by both maintaining and updating its delicious culinary traditions, which are still very much a part of Spain’s contemporary food culture. Each country where Lent was customarily practiced has its own special dishes in which meat is replaced with other protein-rich ingredients in order to fill the stomach. In Spain, the “king” of Lenten cuisine is cod (bacalao), introduced in the 16th century by Basque fishermen who had begun to catch it off the faraway coast of Newfoundland.

We went looking for Rogério Sá at his usual spot – his restaurant, Rogério do Redondo – but we were told at the counter that he just went “down there” to get “something” and will be back in a minute. “Down there” is with the men who fish in the Douro River. “Something” turned out to be shad – two fine specimens of the fish, in fact. “It’s in season,” Rogério tells us when he arrives. We know that fresh fish is worth the wait. The phone rings as we’re talking to Rogério, and he picks up. It’s someone calling for reservations – a party of six, and they’d like to pre-order the classic dish of rooster cabidela (where the meat is cooked in its own blood). “Let me talk to the cook to see if there’s any available, and I’ll call you back,” he says.

The place smells like a wet dog. The fishmongers have long grown accustomed to it, but the uninitiated are assaulted by the full force of La Nueva Viga’s funky barnyard smell almost from Eje 6, the congested avenue were we turn into the entrance. The trick, we find, is to walk quickly into one of the long, narrow corridors of the fish market's three massive buildings, so that the smell of salt and sea and freshly crushed ice fills up our nostrils so completely there is room for nothing else.

If Marseille is a city of 111 villages, Cinq-Avenues is a village that feels like a mini-metropolis. From boulangeries to boucheries, the neighborhood brims with personable local businesses rather than impersonal chain stores. Some places have seen generations pass through their doors – like Maison Calambo, a family-run spot that has been shucking shellfish since 1946. Named for a species of gray shrimp found in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, this small écailler (the French word that is both noun – oyster seller – and verb – to open an oyster) embodies the prized Gallic custom of seafood stands. On Christmas, New Year’s Eve and during other celebrations, French families gather around teeming shellfish platters, the perfect pairing to festive bubbles and the ideal antidote to fatty foie gras.

Settling into our first cross-country journey in Turkey many years ago, we were pleasantly surprised by the comforts of Turkish bus travel. The young garson wore a proper uniform and dribbled cologne onto our hands every hour or so. Tea was served regularly, accompanied by one of our early Turkish culinary discoveries, Eti brand pop kek – those unctuous and delicious cakes frosted or stuffed with everything from raisins to chocolate – the Anatolian Twinkie. Call us heathens, but we love them. We’ve tried many traditional Turkish cakes, but none we encountered measured up to the beloved pop kek. That is, until one recent visit to Fatih Sarmacısı, an Ottoman-era shop making our new favorite cake, sarma (the word means “wrapped” or “rolled up” in Turkish).

Old Carnide feels like Lisbon’s land that time forgot. Just a 15-minute subway ride from the tourist bustle of downtown, tucked away behind a sprawling mega-mall and phalanxes of high-rise apartment blocks, it’s a neighborhood of cobbled lanes and pastel-painted 18th-century homes, where children play beside the cream-colored medieval church and graybeards argue soccer and politics under shady lime trees. Come lunchtime, however, and the sleepy, village-like calm is shattered. Cars honk for parking spaces, and packs of besuited business types, chatty troops of workmates, extended family groups and multiple couples suddenly emerge onto Carnide’s narrow streets with one thought in mind: food.

The refrigerators are spilling out onto the sidewalk. That’s the first thing we notice at Galaktokomio, a dairy shop in Ambelokipoi. We step inside and, unsurprisingly, more of these large refrigerators line one of the walls of this tiny shop. The opposite wall is filled with shelves of pasta, trahana, almonds, flour, honey, tahini and other edible goodies, while a freezer filled with frozen pies, which look homemade, looms at the back. But their most precious gems are in the refrigerators: dairy products, including some of the best yogurt in Greece. As we stand, enthralled by the contents of these gleaming cases, Vicky approaches us. The polite and professional shopkeeper, she begins to unravel the story behind this small shop in one of the most densely populated areas in Athens.

Leticia Ochoa walked around Queens’ Corona Plaza, her young son in tow, chatting with each of the food cart vendors clustered around the corner of National and Roosevelt. It was a Sunday morning in February, and the sun was shining. Ochoa works as a community organizer and had helped broker an agreement between the 110 police precinct and the local vendors: if they didn’t block walkways, the police wouldn’t bother them. As far as Ochoa could tell, the peace seemed to be holding. People flowed in and out of the plaza, stopping by the carts to buy aluminum containers laden with morcilla (blood sausage), salchipapa (salty, fatty sausages and French fries) and papa con cuero (pork skin boiled in savory broth with potatoes). No one seemed to be in a rush.