At the back of a butchery in the town of Martina Franca, Riccardo Ponte claps his massive, baseball-mitt hands, calloused from years of charcoal burns and judo holds, and presents the next plate. Tender chunks of veal lung wrapped in sinister layers of pork fat form a glistening pyramid on the table. “Pugliese chewing gum,” he says with a grin, before retreat- ing back to his grill, a central fixture of his shop, called Mang e Citt, or “Sit Down and Eat” in Pugliese slang. Most of the macellerias—butchers that double as informal restaurants—have, out of convenience, moved to standard-issue flat-top grills in recent years. Ponte’s setup, however, is somewhere between a pizza oven and a hearth, a kind of infernal cubby hole carved directly into the wall of his small fluorescent-lit shop. Stacks of meat balance precariously on skewers; coals, dispersed in various piles, create heat zones measured purely by feel. Ponte insists that this technique, established centuries ago by the butchers of Martina Franca, makes all the difference: “You can taste the process,” he says. 

I had come to Puglia—the gleaming, postcard-ready wedge of Southern Italy that sticks into the Ionian Sea like a boot heel—to eat. This, I recognize, is not a very original quest: Elizabeth Gilbert has been there, Stanley Tucci has done that. Spend enough time digging through guide books and suggested itineraries, and you’d be excused for thinking the only thing in Italy to do is eat.

When we travel to eat, though, we’re often looking for a story—a tale to bring back home, or a clear, easy-to-digest version of a place that fits squarely in our own mental atlases: The ruby red aperitivo glistening in the Tuscan sun, the trapizzino held aloft on the Spanish Steps, the pale green scoop of pistachio gelato, doled out in a Sicilian alleyway. Or, in Ponte’s case, the small-town, larger-than-life chef, seemingly grief-stricken by your physical inability to accept “just one more” piece of grilled meat.

It’s easy to arrive in a place like Puglia with pre-conceptions about Southern Italy: a hot, quiet place, where things move slowly and naps are plentiful. But I quickly learned that for every person doing something one way, there is someone else doing the very same thing—for the very same reasons—a completely different way. As one meal bled into the next, I found that every time I built a story out of the meals I ate and the people I met, every time I thought I had found some definitive sense of what Puglia actually tastes like, it quickly fell away.

While I wish I could take credit for stumbling upon Ponte’s establishment, I was part of a tour group traveling through the region. Roads and Kingdoms, an online travel magazine, has, in recent years, pivoted toward offering small-group, food-centric trips around the world. Trips like the one I took to Puglia are focused not on big-name restaurants, but on offering a backstage pass to show travelers how the actual sausage gets made, drawing on what co-founder Nathan Thornburgh describes as “an archipelago of interesting people.” 

If it all sounds vaguely Bourdainian, that’s not a coincidence. Founded in 2012 by Thornburgh and food writer Matt Goulding, the company and its journalism was for many years supported and funded by Anthony Bourdain. Today, Roads and Kingdoms’ trips actively try to avoid what Thornburgh refers to as “following the umbrella across the piazza.” Potential guests must undergo an interview process to make sure they’re a good fit for the group: Fighting couples and Michelin star-hunters have been turned away in the past. 

Roads and Kingdoms’ shift toward this kind of “don’t-call-it-a-group-trip group trip” is indicative of a wider trend in travel, one in which access is everything. Whether helmed by chefs, academics, or journalists, experiences are being gently curated in a way that feels uniquely yours as they lodge themselves into your memory. Serendipity, by definition, can’t be manufactured. Oftentimes, the best partner to the unexpected is time—slow down and stretch out a trip and you’re bound to meet the characters and have the conversations that end up solidifying the travel experience in your mind. That’s harder on an organized tour, but, as these experiences seem to posit, not impossible.

The interesting person leading us on this particular trip was Eugenio Signoroni, one of Italy’s most celebrated food writers, as well as the editor of the hotly contested “Osterie d’Italia” guidebooks from Slow Food International’s publishing house, which list and review the best traditional restaurants across Italy. On day one, as golden hour sets in at the masseria, or farmhouse, that would serve as our base, Signoroni explains that this is a trip to shatter preconceptions, not confirm them. “You know the stories of the nonna, the Italian grandma and her amazing cooking?” he asks. “I want you to know it’s a total myth: My daughter’s grandmother doesn’t know how to cook a damn thing.” It was a good line for a tour built on this kind of punk-rock premise, but in talking to him afterwards, it became clear that the sentiment behind it is true.

“We like to build up this romantic idea of tradition,” Signoroni says when I ask what he notices when talking to first-time visitors to Italy. “It makes us feel safer and more comfortable.” Four years prior, when I visited Puglia for the first time, I had felt a kind of self-satisfied contentment: Sipping wine and watching a blacksmith working on new horseshoes for the stallions he kept behind his shop, the memory fits squarely into the romantic. “If we want to really understand a place,” Signoroni says, “we have to see it as it is, not as we think it should be.” 

That doesn’t mean you won’t find intergenerational recipes and deep-seated heritage in Puglia. This is a place fiercely proud of its traditions, themselves a mishmash of the steady wave of conquerors who came to this land over millennia. It’s a pride that has been reinforced by recent history too, borne from decades of being looked down upon by the rest of the country. Long one of the poorest regions in Italy, Puglia was left behind by the industrialization that took hold in the north. As a result of a largely subsistence economy, cucina povera—literally “poor kitchen”—is the backbone of Pugliese cuisine. It’s only in recent years, as Puglia has marketed itself as a global destination, that the culinary label has been wielded not with shame, but with a kind of reclaimed dignity. 

At Cibus, a family-run restaurant tucked away in a labyrinth of climbing alleyways in the town of Ceglie Messapica, every dish reveals new layers of com- plexity that belies the kind of catch-all utilitarian implication of cucina povera. The Silibello family offers a crash course in the ingredients of the Salento region: Lampascioni, often translated as “bitter onion” but actually the bulb of a type of hyacinth, takes on the consistency of burnt newsprint when fried, yielding a bitterness that prepares the palate for what comes next. Stringy stracciatella cheese is teleported out of the heart of the burrata balls where it’s most often found, and spread out onto overflowing plates, to be eaten by the dripping forkful. Slices of capocollo and other cuts from the Apulo-Calabrese black pig are arranged into a gradient of richness with clear instructions on how to avoid blowing out your taste buds with hits of lard too early. To bring us back to earth, a Pugliese classic that emerged from tough times: fave e cicoria, a bed of mashed fava beans, topped with chicory leaves and lashed with olive oil. A ragù follows, made with tender horse meat and ricotta forte (an aged, barnyard-forward cheese with a long shelf life ideal for peasant pantries), and juicy, butter-soft slices of beef from the region’s Podolica cow, equally prized for its meat as for its milk.

With its familial ambience, its focus on hearty, of-the-soil ingredients, and its secret, in-house cheese cave, Cibus is the kind of place most travelers dream about when they dream about Italy. And it is exactly as satisfying as you might imagine. Here, all of Signoroni’s “romantic ideas of tradition,” are confirmed to carry at least a foundation of reality. But just 30 miles away, in the town of Putignano, those vague notions of some idealized past are being intentionally—and ruthlessly—torn apart.

At Osteria Botteghe Antiche, chef Stefano D’Onghia takes many of the same ingredients—the same dishes, even—and brings them into a kind of parallel universe where what is known and established gives way to what there is left to learn. There is lampascioni here too, but it is accompanied by a kind of capocollo pocket, filled with chickpea purée. Fave e cicoria becomes a vague signpost rather than a cornerstone of tradition: The fava purée is stuffed into a single grilled green pepper and served alongside a spoonful of caramelized red onions. Ricotta makes an appearance, too, but it is imbued with mint and hidden within the delicate folds of a zucchini flower. Orecchiette, the ear-shaped pasta often served in Puglia with broccoli rabe, is made—intentionally, cheekily—with grano arso, burnt grain that for centuries was the only stuff available to the poorest of the poor. It shares the plate with indulgent chunks of grilled octopus, as if to say look how far we’ve come.

The next evolution of D’Onghia’s menu will be a push toward sustainability, something he argues is at the core of Puglia’s seemingly simple, local-first cuisine. “Nowadays it’s hard to sell a meat dish for less than 18 euros, which is strange for a region like Puglia,” D’Onghia told me. “I want to think about how to make cuts of meat that are not expensive—liver, tongue, offal—just as delicious.” He points to the octopus orecchiette as a dish that is becoming just too expensive for him to sell. What would it taste like, he wonders, if instead of serving the meat, he sous-vide cooked the octopus’s liver, a piece often discarded by fishermen? Somewhere, in some- one’s imagined reality, a nonna in a sauce-streaked apron can’t believe her ears.

Other days highlight both the diversity of the gastronomic scene and the utter impossibility of fitting it into a neat package. There’s the pork cookout in the sun-slapped courtyard of a pig farm belonging to local producers Salumi Martina Franca. It lasts for hours, and transitions organically into a long walk through the land where the animals roam free. At Intini, an olive oil producer outside of Alberobello, a fourth-generation maker explains how some visitors are disappointed to see gleaming industrial equipment instead of charming wooden presses. “If I made it the traditional way, it wouldn’t be good,” Pietro Intini says. “The real revolution in olive oil production only happened 20 years ago.”

Even where traditions do remain intact, modernity creeps in. In Taranto’s Mare Piccolo, an inland sea, Luciano Carriero, a mussel farmer from a family of mussel farmers, explains how a tight-knit network of families has come together to create a cooperative, keeping the sticky fingers of organized crime away. As we float around the bay, he draws long necklaces of the bivalves out of the water and shucks them on the spot, to be eaten raw, paired with bites of provolone cheese and washed down with sparkling wine. He insists I try more than one. “It’s like a big box of chocolates,” Carriero says, one-upping Forrest Gump forever. “Each mussel tastes a little different.” That night, I follow his bounty to its final resting place at Antica Osteria la Sciabica, tucked away along a seaside promenade in the city of Brindisi. The seafood soup doubles as a taxonomy of marine life: fish, squid, shrimp, and, yes, mussels, all afloat in a rich, tomato-based broth. The restaurant buzzes with the sounds of spoons scraping the very last drops from drained bowls.

There is something about visiting the so-called “Old World” as a resident of the so-called “New” one that sets off a kind of rabid, voyeuristic urge to witness “tradition.” Some parts of Puglia, like the family-run cheese cave hidden under a bookshelf at Cibus, or the focaccerias in every village churning out flatbreads in the same oven for generations, do feel stuck in time, and I feel an almost involuntary delight whenever I encounter people doing things as they had been done since before Italy was Italy. But I soon find myself most looking forward to the moments of disruption. I had been warned, in a way, by Signoroni’s meditations on what we often expect from so-called “authentic experiences.” I had caught little rebellions in the form of culinary innovation, and in the subtle twisting of convention. But nothing, it was becoming clear, is that simple.

On the outskirts of Bari, in Altamura, I meet Vito Dicecca who, along with his siblings, has inherited the family cheesemaking tradition, which he treats with all the sacrosanct rulebook-abidance of a mad scientist. Out of a relatively small kitchen, the Dicecca family whips up around 800 pounds of lactic heresy every day. “Anyone in Puglia can make small cheese,” Dicecca says before pointing to his brother Paolo who is in the process of tying a mozzarella knot the size of a newborn. “I want to make big cheese.” He shows off a milky goat cheese concoction, best used as a dip for crispy bagel-shaped taralli crackers (“the best drunk food,” Dicecca calls it). A bright orange cousin to caciocavallo goes by the name “Life on Mars.” While conventional wisdom says mozzarella needs to be made from buffalo milk, the Dicecca family makes a goat milk version, granting the usually mild cheese a deliciously grassy funk.

To try Dicecca’s wildest creation, I have to wait until we leave the shop in Altamura and travel into the pinewoods of the Mercadante nature reserve. There, the family has opened Baby Dicecca, a cheese bar that serves as a tasting room and satellite for experimentation. After the kind of long, languorous meal I’ve grown accustomed to in Puglia, Dicecca brings out dessert. Looking more like a cake than a wheel of cheese, this has, for good reason, become the Diceccas’ most famous act of sacrilege. To create it, he drops a wheel of blue cheese into a barrel of primitivo wine, where it soaks for 100 days. Afterwards, it’s topped with candied sour cherries, adding a tartness to the indulgent sweet and salty combination. It’s cut into wedges that are inten- tionally about 12 times too big for one person to handle and served with even more primitivo wine. It’s called, Dicecca tells me with a conspiratorial grin, “Amore Primitivo.”

This, I think, seems like the kind of person who takes great pride in his inventions, who revels in the fact that he’s challenging tradition with each new wacky idea. Does he spend as much time thinking about authenticity as I do? “Are you worried some- one is going to take your idea, or try to do some other, worse version of it?” I ask. I imagine grocery stores lined with tasteless, harmless cheeses, smothered in neon jelly.

“It doesn’t matter who invents the thing or who has the original story,” Dicecca says while doling out the next in an endless series of wine refills. “It only matters who does it best.”

Recipes

Brindisi Seafood Stew

Get the recipe >

Orecchiette with Octopus Ragù and Chickpea Purée

Get the recipe >

Ricotta-Stuffed Squash Blossoms with Fried Zucchini Coins

Get the recipe >

The post The Cuisine of Puglia Defies Definition appeared first on Saveur.

These days, Italian-style cheese is part of everyday life. From gooey mozz melted atop classic pizza, to strip steaks drizzled with gorgonzola cream sauce, to the flourish of umami-rich parm crowning bowls of pasta from New York City to Tokyo, these cheesy ingredients are the culinary backbone of recipes enjoyed far beyond Europe’s boot-shaped country. And while Italy’s cheesemaking traditions have also traveled beyond its borders—inspiring farmers, makers, and affineurs around the world—there’s still nothing quite like the real thing.

Many Italian cheeses are infinitely versatile in the kitchen, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less revered than their cheese board brethren. Savory shards of Parmigiano-Reggiano (Italy’s “King of Cheeses”), for example, might be enjoyed with a glass of sparkling wine, while that same wheel’s rind, simmered in a brothy pot of white beans and escarole, is just as much a revelation. This is partly due to the fact that many well-known types of Italian-made cheeses are held to the strictest standards. The European Union has granted more than 500 Italian cheeses PDO (Protected Designation of Origin) status, a legal designation that ensures recipients are produced in their established region, using the traditional methods and specific ingredients that make each unique. Here are some considerations that come into play:

Top-Quality Milk

Nearly every Italian region produces some sort of dairy—and along with it, some sort of cheese, from piquante Gorgonzola ripened in the northern Piedmont and Lombardy regions, to mild and milky Mozzarella di Bufala hand-stretched in southern Campania. Italian cheese is always crafted from top-quality milk, whether it’s made from the milk of sheep, cows, goats, buffalo, or a mix. Animal welfare and a grass-fed diet are often built into the exacting PDO standards as well: for example, Sardinia’s Pecorino Sardo is made primarily from the milk of sheep that graze freely on that island’s lush and shrubby hillside pastures. Many PDO designations also specify that cheeses may only be made from the milk of certain breeds—such as the firm, Alpine wheels of Piave, which must be made using an 80 percent minimum of milk from the local Bruna Italiana, Valdostana Pezzata Rossa, Frisona Italiana, or Grigio Alpina cows.

Regional Diversity

Much like wine, Italian cheese is an agricultural product reflective of its origin’s soil, terrain, flora, and climate. From the vegetation consumed by the dairy herd to the conditions under which a cheese is aged, each one takes on very particular regional characteristics. For instance, Fontina Val d’Aosta is made only from the unpasteurized milk of Valdostana cows pastured in northern Italy’s Aosta Valley. The resulting Alpine cheese is creamy and firm, and its ripening process—up to three months of rest in natural stone caverns—enhances the milk’s underlying nutty, buttery, grassy notes.

Skilled Artisans

After milk has been sourced, it’s up to talented Italian artisans to craft it into a cheese that is consistent from wheel to wheel, and is a unique expression of its particular place, producer, and tradition. Cheesemaking is not an easy task, and in Italy, it’s an artform that carefully balances science, culture, and craft. Each cheesemaker and affineur relies on methods honed over generations. And in some cases, the artisans themselves are a component of the authenticity of the cheese; Gorgonzola, for example, may only be made by 40 small family dairies and commercial producers. Grana Padano, one of Italy’s most popular exports, was created by the Cistercian monks of Chiaravalle Abbey in Lombardy—though it has long outgrown the monastery and is now more widely produced.

Centuries of Tradition

The history of cheese in Italy dates back thousands of years and is an important part of Europe’s food culture. Pecorino Romano was used to feed legions of Roman soldiers; the salty, low-moisture cheese was deemed a vital source of fat, salt, and protein, and is still prized for its long shelf life today. Production of Parmigiano-Reggiano has barely changed since the 12th century; it’s still made from a mixture of whole and skimmed milk in large copper cauldrons, and only in the regions of Emilia-Romagna and Lombardy. Lombardy’s soft, washed-rind Taleggio has been made much the same way since the Middle Ages, too, drawing its distinct pungency from ripening in the naturally cool caves of Val Taleggio.

Italy’s rich and storied history—along with its diverse climate, geography, and regional traditions—make it particularly fertile ground for cheese production. Ancient recipes and techniques have persisted for millenia, occasionally adapting and evolving with technology, but always with the utmost care and oversight. When no substitute will do, ask your local cheesemonger for Italian-made cheese, or look for “made in Italy,” on the label at the supermarket.

The post If the Cheese Is From Here, You Know It’s Going to Be Good appeared first on Saveur.

Marseille: It’s east and it’s west, a city with awe-inspiring force shrouded in mystery. It’s hard to pin down. It must be teased out, won over through discovery. And then suddenly, it’s yours! When you arrive in Marseille from the airport highway, the tracking shot is spectacular. The sea. The islands in the distance. The buildings straight ahead. And the long footbridge crossing that’s like an artery into the city. 

Marseille feels cinematic. The air is sweet even when the cold mistral wind is blowing. You slow down. There’s no rush. La Bonne Mère—the emblematic cathedral towering above the city—watches over you. The fishmonger is calling out the catch of the day. Suddenly you’re hungry, but there’s so much to choose from. Honey beignets on rue d’Aubagne. A “moitié-moitié” pizza. A Friday aïoli. Coffee with an orange-blossom navette. A table in full sun.

Gazing out over the jetties—that’s how I fell in love with Marseille, and knew I never wanted to leave. I was a food writer when I opened Épicerie L’Idéal, a delicatessen akin to Ali Baba’s cave where you can have a sit-down meal, sampling what’s in season, and all sorts of culinary treasures. A thousand products from Provence, Italy, the Mediterranean, and every corner of France. Harissa, candied lemon slices, fillets of Sicilian tuna in oil, Breton gomasio, pesto with pistachios and almonds, Italian coffee, Banyuls vinegar … My store had to be in Noailles, the Arab neighborhood in the heart of Marseille that constantly reminds me of my Sicilian and Tunisian ancestry.

Marseille has the wind at its back. The new culinary wave began about 10 years ago, going beyond bouillabaisse and pieds paquets (stewed lamb’s feet and tripe). And it hasn’t abated. More and more chefs are flocking to the Phocaean city to express themselves, and they’re bringing natural wines, spicy food, and unorthodox ingredients, all against the backdrop of the breathtaking sea view. —J.S.

Where to Eat

Ourea

72 rue Paix Marcel Paul,
04 91 73 21 53 

Here’s Matthieu Roche’s hideaway. The thrilling chef of this pocket restaurant casually rolls out a new menu each night, a gastronomic symphony in perfect harmony over five courses. I won’t soon forget his cooking à la nage, the frothy broths with mushrooms, cream, and raw fish. He cooks like it’s in his blood.

Chez Michel

6 rue des Catalans,
04 91 52 64 22

Look no further for bouillabaisse, the signature Marseille dish that turns the most beautiful local fish into a soup. This is the place to eat it, on a white tablecloth and served with panache, the fresh seafood presented to the table by a server in a suit and bow tie. You can also opt for the bourride, a more rustic fish stew thickened with aïoli.

À Moro 

3 rue Venture,
07 65 80 37 37

Here we have a just-opened “small Italian bistro” with a terrace that takes up half the street. A thoughtful menu is written on a chalkboard and presented in a trattoria-like room. Try the vitello tonnato, puntarelle and anchovies, squid-ink pacchieri, or Roman-style tripe. And don’t miss the chocolate and olive oil ganache with your coffee.

Ivresse

76 rue Léon Bourgeois

This is the wine bar we’ve been dreaming of in Marseille. Unconventional and extremely stylish, Max works the bar’s small kitchen while Nikolaj pours natural wines. Try the smoked fish, roasted beets, or the yogurt and buckwheat, and pair them with an excellent gewürztraminer, riesling, or New Zealand pinot noir.

Livingston 

5 rue Crudère,
04 96 10 00 00

Meet the wunderkind of Marseille. These punchy plates are served alongside natural wines beneath the graffitied walls of Cours Julien. I can still taste the ’nduja and stracciatella pizzetta, the fried pig’s feet with tom yum and lime. And, of course, the strawberry and pepper donuts!

Limmat

41 rue Estelle,
07 86 30 23 16

Lili Gadola opened her poetic restaurant, reminiscent of a little house, beside the famous colorful stairs of Cours Julien. The menu is all vegetarian and pescatarian food because that’s how Lili likes to eat. Note that there are always crazy-good desserts like the red fruit pavlova or the chocolate mousse cake.

Tuba Club

2 boulevard Alexandre Delabre,
04 91 25 13 16

Take a short boat ride to reach the Old Port in Les Goudes, and you’re at the end of the world. Perched on the rocks like the Italian coast, you’ll find a converted white cabanon designed by Marion Mailaender. Try the house-made taramasalata, fried calamari, and sea bass with bottarga—or spring for the grilled fish. Bonus: There’s now a second bar in Le Bikini, where you can have an aperitivo on the roof.

Maison Journo

28 rue Pavillon,
04 91 33 65 20 

David Journo has taken the reins at his grandfather’s bakery. Raised on the family’s fricasseés (fried bread stuffed with tuna, Tunisian salad, and harissa), almond macarons, brick à l’oeuf, and leblebi (chickpea soup)—not to mention Turkish delight and from-scratch orgeat made from sweet and bitter almond syrup—he continues the family legacy in the Jewish Tunisian tradition.

La Relève

41 rue d’Endoume,
04 95 09 87 81 

The real culinary muckety-mucks of Marseille are located in the 7th arrondissement in the Saint-Victor neighborhood. Duo Greg Hessman and Greg Mandonato bring the whole city to life at lunch and apéro time. Hurry there on Fridays for the aïoli (desalted cod and steamed green beans, carrots, and cauliflower, served with boiled eggs and garlic mayonnaise). Upstairs are two hotel rooms freshly designed by Maison Honoré. A marvel.

Chez Étienne

43 rue de Lorette,
04 91 54 76 33 

Eighty years on, Étienne Cassaro’s pizzeria still stands tall. In the legendary dining room now run by Cassaro’s son Pascal in the middle of Le Panier, don’t miss the classic moitié-moitié pizza (half tomato-Emmental, half tomato-anchovy), fried supions (baby calamari) cooked with garlic and parsley, and eggplant parmesan. On the walls hang photos of the extraordinary Étienne and all of the famous guests who have passed through. —J.S.

Where to Stay

Hôtel Mercure Marseille Canebière Vieux-Port 

48 La Canebière

Travelers eager to explore the North African melting pot neighborhood of Noailles will love this newly renovated mid-century modern hotel, whose ground-floor restaurant serves the original, cognac-spiked style of tapenade, believed to be invented on the premises in 1880.

Le Petit Nice Passedat 

17 rue des Braves Anse de Maldormé

A century-old Relais & Château stunner, this hotel houses a sensational three-Michelin-star seafood restaurant boasting sweeping Mediterranean views and a kitchen that works with more than 65 types of fish. Upstairs, spacious rooms feature deep-sink tubs and sleek wooden furniture.

Intercontinental Marseille – Hôtel Dieu 

1 Place de Daviel 

This stately grande dame with flags and manicured hedges out front has understated rooms with clean lines as well as more premium digs looking out over the Old Port. The terrace restaurant serves an exquisite pissaladière, Provence’s signature flatbread topped with anchovies, onions, and capers.

New Hotel Le Quai – Vieux Port

2 Place de Gabriel Péri

After a nine-month renovation that added six spacious guest rooms and an all-day café (where non-patrons are welcome to post up with a coffee and a pastry), this Belle Époque property recently reopened. Its location between Canebière and the Old Port can’t be beat. —B.K.

Essential Culinary Souvenirs

Les Terres de Pierre Fruité Noir Extra-Virgin Olive Oil 

Provisions, 95 rue de Lodi 

Olive growers of yore often left their harvest to ferment in jute bags, imbuing the oil with an earthy, chocolatey flavor that plays well with anchovies, tomatoes, and goat cheese. Few continue the tradition; this local producer is one of them.

Tava Rose Harissa

Piou, 70 rue Grignan

Yotam Ottolenghi’s favorite small-batch chile paste, Tava, is made in Marseille and fragrant with Isfahan rose petals—a nod to the city’s history of North African influence. A little goes a long way, which makes the $9 price tag an absolute steal.

Navettes from Les Navettes des Accoules

68 rue Caisserie

Perfumed with orange blossom water, these canoe-shaped cookies are the city’s signature sweet. They’re lovely alongside coffee or liqueur, and keep for weeks. The Corsican owners of this legendary biscuiterie bake theirs to a crumbly (read: less tooth-breaking) texture than their competitors across town at Four des Navettes.

Torchons from Maison Empereur 

4 rue des Récolettes

This wonderland of a kitchen store dates back nearly two centuries. Thiers knives, canelé molds, and earthenware cassoles are terrific buys, but far more affordable are these durable tea towels.

Mélets de Martigues from Épicerie L’Idéal

11 rue d’Aubagne

Mélets are an ancestral, garum-like condiment heady with fennel seeds made from fermented baby anchovies. Julia Sammut, of Épicerie L’Idéal, keeps her plug a secret (“If he quits, we’re dead!”). At the Épicerie, she serves it drizzled with olive oil as a dip for country bread, while at home, she likes whisking it with bread crumbs, olive oil, and lemon juice to make a quick bagna cauda sauce for pouring over broccolini and soft-boiled eggs.

Henri Bardouin Pastis 

Cavavin – Marseille Opéra, 1 rue Saint-Saëns 

Marseille’s anisey, milky-white tipple is a must-buy. One of the best, by Henri Bardouin, happens to be widely available (in France and the United States). It’s flavored with over 65 spices and herbs and has buoyant thyme and citrus notes.

Fer à Cheval Soap 

66 chemin de Sainte-Marthe

Olive oil-based Marseille soap, with its sage-green hue and rustic stamped insignia, doesn’t dry the skin, and can be used as a stain-busting laundry detergent. Founded in 1856, this local producer sells the real deal—no dyes, perfumes, or funny stuff.

Taste the World in Marseille 

Azul, 73 rue Francis Davso 

This 300-page volume from Marseille-born filmmaker and journalist Vérane Frédiani is a gastronomical goldmine. Chef interviews tell the story of local bakeries and restaurants, while recipes for regional greatest hits—rouille, soupe au pistou, and more—let you bring the city’s flavors home. —B.K.

The post Where to Eat, Stay, and Shop in Marseille appeared first on Saveur.

San Sebastián may be the only city on earth whose key sights include man-made mountains of canapés, seafood skewers, and creamy croquetas—finger food as far as the eye can see. I’m talking about pintxos, the elaborate miniature dishes that have long played protagonist in this idyllic coastal city’s tourist scene.

Pintxos are a Basque tradition, and they can be as simple as a skewer of canned tuna and a pickled pepper or as involved as perfectly portioned seared foie gras served over warm apple compote. Some are dessert: It would be a travesty to leave San Sebastián without trying La Viña’s viral “burnt” cheesecake.

Pintxos represent a century of culinary evolution in this corner of the Basque Country, and in my 14 years living here and writing about food, I’ve come to think of them as a way of life. Stopping at a bar for a snack and a glass of wine is a daily ritual for locals—myself among them.

The beauty of San Sebastián’s pintxo scene is that it takes well to a greatest-hits roundup: Virtually every bar here has a signature dish locals devour before hitting up the next watering hole. To that end, what follows is an edible roadmap that will take you from the La Concha Beach promenade to the charming old town and across the river to residential Gros, where I live. Be sure to pace yourself—a bit of restraint will ensure you maximize the number of pit stops. 

Gilda at Casa Vallés

Was the gilda the first pintxo, as so many guides breezily claim? No, but it is the holy grail of the banderilla (“skewer”) genre. When pintxos were invented about 100 years ago, they were essentially snacks strung together on a toothpick. The gilda was among them, a holy trinity of manzanilla olive, meaty salt-cured anchovy, and hot pickled guindilla pepper. To try it, stop into its alleged birthplace, Casa Vallés, a frozen-in-time bar founded in 1942 in the city center. The name “gilda” comes from the Rita Hayworth character in the eponymous movie, so called because both were verde (green, which in Spanish also means salacious), picante (spicy, in the sexy sense), and salado (salty, as in funny or charming). The memorable moniker has helped keep the pintxo on everybody’s lips—and in their stomachs—all these years. 

Tortilla Española at Antonio Bar

Beloved across Spain, tortilla española may be the country’s de facto national dish, but few cities take the oozy potato omelet as seriously as San Sebastián. A good tortilla—ingredients: potato, eggs, onions, and oil—embodies the phrase “greater than the sum of its parts,” and the tiny, nondescript Antonio Bar serves what I consider to be the best in town. Antonio’s version is tall, dark, and handsome, thanks to a whopping 28 eggs, extra-caramelized onions, and perfectly confited potatoes.

Ensaladilla Rusa at Bar Ezkurra

Spain’s other potato-fueled obsession is ensaladilla rusa, the cool, mayo-rich potato salad locals eat for sad desk lunches, at Michelin-starred meals out on the town, and every occasion in between. For me, the best ensaladilla contains nothing more than potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, mayonnaise, and a good sprinkling of flaked canned tuna. Ezkurra agrees, and the bar’s secret is in the sauce: a light, homemade mayo recipe passed down from the current generation’s uncle Alejandro Balda. But don’t take my word for it—trust all the customers who cumulatively go through up to 175 pounds of the famed pintxo each day.

La Jardinera at Bar Txepetxa

Boquerones, or vinegar-cured white anchovies, are a pintxo fixture. Shiny and silver, with a white underflesh, they are the gateway anchovy for the anchovy-dubious—and they’re the specialty at this Parte Vieja cubbyhole. Txepetxa’s anchovies are phenomenally fresh (read: not fishy) and marinated in a top-secret potion. Every anchovy pintxo starts with two glimmering fillets on a warm toasted baguette slice, but from there it’s choose your own adventure: There are more than a dozen toppings and condiments on offer, from spider crab cream to blueberry sauce to—my favorite—crunchy pepper-and-onion jardinera. 

Croqueta de Pollo at Bar Urkabe

The important thing to know about croquetas is that there are as many recipes as there are cooks in Spain—and legally speaking, none can be better than one’s own grandmother’s. A perk of being an outsider is that I’m free to rank San Sebastián’s best breaded-and-fried béchamel bites with no fear of finger-wagging. That’s how I wound up at Bar Urkabe in Gros, the kind of locals-only spot where everybody is greeted with a smile and a wave. Here, they simmer the bechamel for their chicken-studded croquetas in the same pan they use to sear the breasts, which gives the croquetas a homey, just-like-mamá’s flavor.

La Delicia at La Espiga

I like to pintxo-hop the way Basques do: one bar, one pintxo, one glass of wine y vámonos. But “La delicia” is my exception to the rule. Is it the way the salt-cured anchovy balances the bite of finely chopped onion parsley vinaigrette? Or the impossibly creamy homemade mayonnaise enlivened by the optional (say yes!) splash of Worcestershire sauce? I don’t know, but I can never have just one delicia. You won’t find this proprietary bite anywhere but La Espiga, the city’s longest-running pintxo bar—so elbow your way to the front, and let them know what you came for.

Pimiento Relleno de Bonito at Bar Martínez

Tinned bonito del norte (albacore) is a pantry staple in the Basque Country, where it’s line-caught and canned in seaside villages. At Bar Martínez, this high-quality tuna gets flaked and folded into a thick tartar sauce, then stuffed into a sweet, roasted, ruby-red piquillo pepper. Perched on a baguette slice and drizzled generously with sharp sherry vinegar and olive oil, the pimiento relleno is a San Sebastián classic, and the poster child of the oldest family-run bar in the Parte Vieja.

La Txalupa at Bar Bergara

In the 1990s, pintxos had a heyday—Basque nueva cocina was at a creative fever pitch, international ingredients were finding their way into bar bites, and pintxos with splashy names were the law of the land. La Txalupa epitomizes the era: “Boat” in Basque, the txalupa is an oval hull of pastry topped with a duxelle of onions, oyster mushrooms, and creamy cava sauce. Bits of shrimp get folded in at the very end and cook in the residual heat, and then the whole thing is topped with grated Swiss and broiled until golden. The Txalupa is the taste of many locals’ childhoods, and you’ll only find it at this legendary bar in Gros.

Foie a La Plancha at La Cuchara de San Telmo

Scoring a perfectly seared piece of foie gras for a few bucks sounds like a fantasy in this economy, but that’s the must-order pintxo at this sardine-can old-town mainstay open since 1999. The caramelized sliver of duck liver comes with a simple swipe of nothing-added applesauce, whose tart sweetness cuts the fat. Chef Alex Montiel’s secret? A long, slow sear on the plancha (griddle). Drizzled with a Basque cider reduction at the last second, this three-ingredient pintxo is an ode to understated luxury.

Risotto de Idiazabal at Borda Berri

Risotto may be Italian in origin, but pound for pound, this bar in the old town likely sells more of it than any Milanese restaurant. To make it, Borda Berri starts with orzo (as opposed to the traditional rice), which gets toasted until nutty and cooked in wine and vegetable broth in traditional risotto style. The chalkboard menu reads “risotto de Idiazabal,” but Chef Marc Clua whisks in three types of the Basque raw sheep’s milk cheese—fresh, aged, and smoked—for a complex, layered flavor. A drizzle of parsley oil ups the Basque factor and lends a pop of color to this crowd-pleasing pintxo.

Vieira Asada Sobre Ajoblanco at Casa Urola 

A walk through La Bretxa market’s row of fishmongers is a parade of whole fish with the shiniest scales and glistening eyes, tanks of live lobsters and shrimp, and shells large and small. My favorite dish incorporating these fresher-than-fresh shellfish comes from Casa Urola, a block from the market. I’m talking about the vieira asada (grilled scallop), which gets a kiss of flame and comes atop a cool and creamy ajoblanco, Spain’s ancient silky almond-bread soup. Local celebrity chef Pablo Loureiro dresses this modern pintxo in a simple yet revelatory coffee vinaigrette, then sprinkles on some pistachios and almonds plus a bit of nori for crunch. The result is a dish worthy of any white tablecloth.

Gazta-Tarta at La Viña

There’s little to say about Basque burnt cheesecake that hasn’t been covered in nearly half-a-million Instagram posts, so I’ll keep this brief: La Viña, where the cheesecake style was invented, remains well worth the hype. Cheesecakes resting in their burned parchment springforms deck the walls of this traditional, family-run bar that always serves the pintxo the same way: in two thin slivers per portion. No matter how many versions of the dessert you’ve tried, it’s worth ending your pintxo hop with the original, a creamy, tangy cheesecake stripped down the bare essentials. Expect neither crust nor garnish—gazta-tarta is all about the eggy custard, lightly burnished around the edges and best enjoyed with a glass of txakoli or Pedro Ximenez sherry. 

The post The Pintxo Bars I Can’t Live Without in San Sebastián appeared first on Saveur.

It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when eating in a London pub would have seemed wilfully perverse. Before The Eagle on Farringdon Road became the first “Gastropub” in 1991, pub food in the British capital ran the gamut from basic (crisps, nuts, pickled stuff) to microwaved (everything else). Pubs were for drinking; restaurants were for foreigners. Londoners largely ate at home.

In the 1990s, Britain experienced a culinary awakening, buoyed by the arrival of a spate of game-changing restaurants—most notably the late, great Rowley Leigh’s Kensington Place—and a widespread desire for better casual dining. In London, that transformation was evident in the many historical pubs that began putting food first (even if some locals grumbled about drinkers being elbowed out). But today, Londoners are less bothered by pubs’ evolving identity and more concerned about their very existence. Thanks to a complex blend of factors, notably social change and planning law, pubs are shutting left and right. Any neighborhood pub is a good pub in this economy, even if it’s a far cry from the sawdust-floored barrooms of yore. A lot has changed since and, on balance, mostly for the better. 

Since moving back to London in 2001, I’ve become quite fond of these new-school gastropubs, where quality and flavor are paramount. They’re a good bet for a tasty pint, particularly cask ale, which makes a terrific sidekick for updated pub grub like devilled kidneys, braised lamb shoulder, and lemon syllabub (food with “Big Flavours and Rough Edges,” as the name of The Eagle’s 2001 cookbook anoints it). These are places to drop into as much as make a booking, whether for an impromptu after-work meal or a Sunday lunch. 

Gastropubs are no longer a trend but rather a fixture of London’s food zeitgeist, but they haven’t stopped evolving, thanks to a steady stream of talent escaping London’s high-pressure restaurant scene. In recent years, pubs like The Tamil Prince and The Camberwell Arms have taken the genre to new heights with internationally inflected food that includes homemade pickles and ice cream. Wine, natural or otherwise, is now as important as beer. Translation? There’s never been a better time to eat in London’s pubs. Let’s dig in.

The Audley

41-43 Mount St., W1K 2RX
+44 20 3840 9862

Given the money that sloshes around Mayfair, London’s swankiest district, it should have more high-end pubs. But The Audley, which opened in 2022, has only two or three comparable rivals, and no real equal. The space is delightful, a symphony of brown wood crowned by gently curving, multicolored art by British artist Phyllida Barlow, who died last year. The bar menu offers a half-pint of lusciously juicy prawns, “London rarebit” (Welsh rarebit, but the cheese sauce is made with London Pride ale), and—rather eccentrically—a no-frills sausage on a plate served with nothing but mustard. From the main menu, it’s hard to look past chicken and Marmite pie, all savory umami tang, and the London dip, a steak sandwich served with gravy for dunking. 

Bouchon Racine

66 Cowcross St., EC1M 6BP
+44 20 7253 3368

Can a bouchon, a traditional Lyonnaise eating place, also be a pub? Bouchon Racine answers that question with its bright, lively room above Farringdon’s Three Compasses pub. The cooks are British but the food is French: Chef Henry Harris, who formerly ran Racine in Knightsbridge, is as Francophile as they come. On my last visit, I enjoyed Bayonne ham with celeriac remoulade (a lovely balance of fatty and fresh) followed by piquant, creamy lapin à la moutarde complemented by a cherry-rich Morgon by Jean-Marc Burgaud. This is the sort of place where you can’t help feeling celebratory, especially when—as when I came here for my birthday—sunshine floods through the glazed ceiling at the front and fills the room.

Bull & Last

168 Highgate Rd., NW5 1QS
+44 20 726 73641

The Scotch egg—a hen’s egg encased in ground pork and breadcrumbs and deep-fried to a distinctive ginger hue—is synonymous with modern pub food. My favorite rendition is at the Bull & Last, which tosses extra herbs into the meat mixture and cooks the yolk to jammy perfection. The rest of the menu jumps Britain’s borders with dishes like oyster mushroom tempura, baked sea bream with tomatoes and olives, and a show-stopping fish board piled with house-cured gravlax, smoked mackerel pâté, brown crab (boiled and blended with mayonnaise, paprika and lemon), chipirones (deep-fried baby squid), and crispy cod cheeks.

The Camberwell Arms

65 Camberwell Church St., SE5 8TR
+44 20 7358 4364

If you live in London longer than five minutes, you’ll notice that pubs change hands all the time. The Camberwell Arms was once The Castle—I had my stag party there—but it has remained under its current name for more than ten years, a tribute to the inventive, punchy food: Scotch bonnet pork fat on toast—bite-sized and mouth-coatingly good—or grilled kohlrabi with potato fritter, cashew cream, preserved lemon and chili, a masterclass in complementary textures and tastes. The beer program recently got a welcome overhaul: try The Kernel’s Table Beer, a low-ABV, high-impact pale ale made up the road in Bermondsey.

The Canton Arms

177 S Lambeth Rd., SW8 1XP
+44 20 7582 8710

Some of my most memorable London meals have been large-format feasts. The steaming pigeon and trotter pie at St. John comes to mind, as does a haunch of venison, served on lush spring greens, at the aforementioned Palmerston. This may be the reason I like The Canton Arms so much: here you’ll find a magnificent shoulder of salt marsh lamb, glistening and falling off the bone, served with a huge potato gratin and greens, designed to feed five. The food here reminds me of the cooking I grew up on; there’s fish pie, dense and comforting and served with buttered greens, and lemon posset for dessert, equal parts tart citrus and creamy richness.  

The Devonshire

17 Denman St., W1D 7HW

Few pubs have captured Londoners’ imaginations of late like The Devonshire. Everyone from Ed Sheeran to Nigella Lawson has visited since it opened in November, and it’s easy to see why: This street-corner Soho pub offers Dublin-quality Guinness and, upstairs, wood-ember-grilled hunks of meat alongside other comforting classics. From the beautiful handwritten menu, my favorites are potted shrimps (tiny shrimp suspended in nutmeg butter), beef cheek and Guinness suet pudding—a rib-sticking Dickensian delight—and sweet Scottish langoustines.

The Marksman

254 Hackney Rd., E2 7SB
+44 20 7739 7393

The Marksman was founded by Tom Harris and Jon Rotheram, who cut their teeth at St John, and their food embodies the uncomplicated yet refined approach of that era-defining Spitalfields restaurant. Dishes like dressed Dorset Crab with Rye Crackers—a taste of the English seaside—or chicken and wild garlic pie. On Friday, the “Worker’s Lunch”—$19 including a drink—takes this to its logical conclusion with simple, delicious dishes like Tamworth sausage and mash, or cottage pie, its ridged potato lid irresistibly golden and crunchy.

The Parakeet

256 Kentish Town Rd., NW5 2AA
+44 20 4599 6302

Reopened and renamed last year after an extensive refit, The Parakeet is a harmonious blend of green upholstery, soft furnishings and elegant detail, most notably the delightful etched-glass bar back. Much of the grub is cooked on a Japanese-made Hibachi grill and in the wood-fired oven: there’s a lamb chop with artichoke heart, charred and halved and a hazelnut pesto, smoked mutton sausage, and grilled lettuce with shrimp-head butter—which is a sweet, tender and richly savory revelation.

The Pig’s Head

87 Rectory Grove, London SW4 0DR
+44 20 4568 5830

Kent, the county southeast of London, is known as the Garden of England, a nod to its cornucopia of produce. The Pig’s Head sources much of its veg from there, from plump broad beans to purple-green asparagus. Vegetables are often an afterthought at British pubs, but they’re what I look forward to here, served roasted, buttered, pickled, or glazed alongside, say, a thick Barnsley chop, red-pink, treacle-cured chalk stream trout, or mushrooms on toast, a British tea-time classic made with lion’s mane and fermented mushrooms and bolstered by red wine ragout, walnut pâté and pickled walnuts.   

The Talbot

2 Tyrwhitt Rd., SE4 1QG
+44 20 8692 2665

What, you may reasonably ask, is a Talbot? It’s a hunting dog, once sent in pursuit of beasts from Scotland to the South Coast, but now extinct—unless you count pub names. This Talbot is well worth chasing down: a few weeks ago, I enjoyed a plump, succulent venison pie on a thick mound of buttery mash, followed by a chocolate tart so dark and intense I could taste it an hour later. The Talbot’s other delights—like whipped smoked cod’s roe with crispy chicken skin and radishes, a genuinely show-stopping blend of textures and flavors—demonstrate how pub food has evolved, both in Brockley—a neighborhood of parks and sleepy rowhouses—and beyond. 

The Tamil Crown

16 Elia St., London N1 8DE
+44 20 7916 2920

Indian food has long been served in British pubs, particularly in England’s West Midlands— where Desi Pubs, opened to feed arrivals from the Indian subcontinent in the 1970s and 80s but now beloved by all, were born—but London gastropubs have been slow to embrace the flavors of the subcontinent. Not the Tamil Crown, however, the more relaxed and pub-like offshoot of sister (brother?) restaurant The Tamil Prince. Menu showstoppers include coconut prawn moilee, a South Indian curry made with coconut milk, and robata lamb chops, marinated in masala spices and cooked over hot charcoal, plus Indian-inclined roasts on Sundays. My favorites, though, are the starters and sides—like a crispy, spidery deep-fried nest of onion bhaji, served with mint sauce, or roti bread, which flakes and melts in the mouth. Both are the perfect accompaniment to a pint of Purity ale, served here on handpump. 

The Walmer Castle

58 Ledbury Rd., W11 2AJ
+44 20 3946 9555

The Walmer Castle reopened in 2023 with a focus on food. This is the fancy end of Notting Hill, just beyond tourist-heavy Portobello Road, and the food reflects locals’ love of simple, elegant European grub: a ham hock and chicken terrine is a feast for the eyes as much as the stomach, while smoked halibut with beetroot and soft-boiled egg is a balance of punchy and delicate, rustic sweetness and soft smoky flakes. Pudding (dessert to you Yanks) is an unexpected forte: on my last visit, I enjoyed sticky toffee pudding with salted caramel ice cream, a combination so sweet it sounds too much—but was actually just right.

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Krakow runs on milk bars. These no-fuss canteens serve affordable yet filling meals that taste like Babcia’s house—big, honking dessert and all—and they hold a deep, nostalgic place in Poland’s national psyche. While the country’s food scene has been sprinting in the opposite direction of hearty staples like żurek soup, schabowy pork cutlets, and pierogi ruskie (more on those later), milk bars have remained steadfast, soul-soothing, and as reliably satiating as ever. 

In modern Poland, milk bars (“bar mleczny” in Polish) seem like an anachronism doomed to die out. Polish culinary school graduates aren’t clamoring to work at canteens, and the bars’ aging workers are retiring in droves. Even if the establishments were to survive, would they not be Brooklynized into kitschy brunch restaurants or turned into a franchise by yet another vulture fund?

Curious (and hungry), I went to Krakow to find out what the future holds for these treasured restaurants. That’s how I met Michał Turecki. Turecki is a born-and-raised Cracovian food guide, writer, and cook who—like many Poles—can trace life’s milestones back to milk bars. On a cloudy-turned-sunny April morning, I met him outside Bar Centralny. Two minutes into the conversation, he was already drifting into misty-eyed nostalgia: When his grandmother passed away seven years ago, he went straight to nearby Bar Północny to cry over a plate of pierogi ruskie because they reminded him of the ones she used to make.

Milk bars’ emotional connection has a lot to do with history, and the fact that they’ve been around for generations. While most associate this type of dining with post-World War II communism, it in fact predates the war. Turecki explains that milk bars grew in popularity in the 1950s, when getting inexpensive meals to the people was crucial as the country dealt with post-war destruction, social unrest, political uncertainty, and a litany of economic challenges. Turecki estimates there were once some 70,000 milk bars across the country.      

One reason milk bars have survived is government subsidies, which make $3 żurek with kielbasa and $2 pierogi possible today. In an era when food insecurity is on the rise, it’s in Poland’s national interest to have a nourishing (in every sense of the word) alternative to ultra-processed calorie bombs and fast-food chains. And at milk bars, you can bank on the kind of meal a Polish mother or grandmother would serve—in part because that’s who’s predominantly in the kitchen. These establishments, then, double as a source of culinary dignity to those who would otherwise not be able to afford to eat well. Some patrons even bring containers to stock their fridges and cupboards. 

It’s no secret that nearly all bar mleczny offer what’s basically a copy-paste menu of the classics. Nobody’s there for variety or aesthetically pleasing presentations prepared by stagiers moving grains of kasha around just so with a pair of tweezers. Rave reviews of milk bars often have more to do with sentimental value than taste, though Turecki insists that quality does vary depending on the cook. 

But many cooks are nearing retirement. Turecki says he’s “terrified” about the future of milk bars. Beyond the meager salaries, the ever-dwindling pot of public money is another looming nail in the coffin. “Politicians think the main group using the milk bars are people with food stamps,” he says. “When actually, you can meet people there from almost every social group, from the poorest to students, and tourists.”

Konrad Piwowarczyk, who also joined me on my milk bar crawl, shares Turcecki’s sentiment. Piwowarczyk is a young, gregarious, wildly knowledgeable food and vodka guide with Delicious Poland. “They might be the type of business that will phase out with time,” he says.

But they won’t go down without a fight. The closure of a number of popular milk bars in recent weeks and months struck an alarming chord. Further, local elections are on the horizon in Krakow and funding milk bars has become a political football, drawing attention to the issue. 

Then there’s the role of tourism. Krakow, with its UNESCO-protected old town, is a tourist magnet, and visitors are charmed by the kind of old-timey, traditional dining milk bars provide. As more middle- and upper-class Poles abandon milk bars for international options popping up around the city, it remains to be seen whether these enduring establishments will become a rare overtourism success story. 

I couldn’t wait to be a tourist myself: Exploring the city’s milk bars is a wonderful way to experience the local culture and meet Cracovians from all walks of life. Armed with lists provided by Turecki and Piwowarczyk (and a Reddit page or two), I set off on an epic tour of 13 milk bars across the city. Here’s a taste of my findings. 

Bar Mleczny Centralny

Osiedle Centrum C 1, 31-929

It’s breakfast time, so I get bułka z pastą jajeczną i kakao, half a bread roll with chopped hard-boiled eggs, mayo, and onions spread across. It comes with a piping-hot cup of cocoa, a less off-putting combination than it sounds. (Cocoa became a milk bar breakfast staple due to coffee shortages, according to Turecki.)     

I love it in here: the white marble tables, maroon chairs, and unusually ornate chandelier twinkling over it all. We’re in Nowa Huta, literally the “new steel mill,” where a towering statue of Lenin once stood. The area was designed in the 1950s as the model communist neighborhood. Communism is long gone, but communist-era Centralny remains. 

Bar Mleczny Północny

31-946 Kraków, Osiedle Teatralne 11

This is where Turecki cried over those pierogi ruskie, describing the experience as “metaphysical.” Stuffed with twaróg (smoky cow’s cheese) and sprinkled with chopped fried bacon, they’re everything I want in a pierogi––soft, slightly chewy, and tangy from the cheese.  

An aside: Many presume “ruskie” relates to Russia, and some have taken to calling the dish pierogi ukraiński in protest. But “ruskie” is actually derived from “Rus,” in reference to the historical region of Red Ruthenia, which now straddles western Ukraine and southeastern Poland. 

Turecki gets the ⁠kluski leniwe, or “lazy” dumplings. These are essentially pasta strips served with melted butter, a sprinkling of breadcrumbs, and sugar. Turecki explains that the generous use of sugar in milk bars dates back to post-war shortages of virtually everything but sugar. “There was a saying: sugar makes you stronger.”

Bar Mleczny Bieńczyce

Spytka z Melsztyna 22, 31-930

Bieńczyce’s is known for its soups, especially the thick and flavorful krupnik brimming with barley, carrots, celery, onions, and potatoes. The sour rye soup called żurek is also popular, made hearty by potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, and sausage. It’s available at every milk bar, but here it’s “just like it supposed to be,” Turecki says, “properly sour with good-quality sausage.”

Bar Mleczny Żaczek

Czarnowiejska 75, 30-049

Marble tables are bunched together to make room for the throngs of students, young professionals, and retirees queuing up at the doorway at this casual spot. I grab a seat while Turecki takes care of the order. What arrives is both sweet and savory: kopytka z masłem are hoof-shaped dumplings made from potato-based dough that come drizzled with melted butter. Turecki calls these “Polish gnocchi” for their pillowy texture. Then, it’s naleśniki z jabłkami,  pancakes with a tart apple filling. A far cry from your fluffy American pancakes, we’re talking burrito-size blintzes covered in an avalanche of powdered sugar. (Remember, sugar makes you strong.)

Bar Mleczny Uniwersytecki

Czysta 5, 31-121

Uniwersytecki, literally “University,” is a student lunch stalwart, but people of all ages flock here for placki ziemniaczane z sosem, potato pancakes with gravy. While most meat eaters spring for hunter’s sauce (shallots, mushrooms, butter, demi-glace), my vegetarian sensibilities point me to a steamy mushroom gravy with soft porcini mushrooms swimming in the cloudy glaze.

MIŁA Bar Mleczny

Czysta, 31-121

We pop into this hole-in-the-wall for a quick bowl of żurek, that sour rye soup. It’s lukewarm and has a salty, meaty flavor that reminds me of shrink-wrapped American hotdogs. I don’t love it, but I’m clearly in the minority judging by the line trailing out onto the sidewalk. 

Bar Mleczny Krakus

Bolesława Limanowskiego 16, 30-534

Krakus, near the Jewish Ghetto Memorial and Oskar Schindler’s factory, is one of the few milk bars with an English menu on the counter. I glance over it while Turecki helps a gaggle of Spanish tourists communicate their order. 

Before I know it, I’m tucking into an excellent bowl of barszcz czerwony z uszkami, hot and tangy beet soup with small mushroom-filled dumplings. The dish is popular on Christmas Eve (Wigilia), so it’s a rare treat to be having it out of season. I follow it up with racuchy z jabłkami, pancakes with a slight pan-fried crunch that ooze apple compote with every bite. 

Bar Mleczny Jutrzenka

Stefana Bobrowskiego 6, 31-559

Jutrzenka is tucked into a community block across from a tree-covered park. The typically long menu is plastered with three Pepsi logos, a vestige of the excitement for western products when communism fell. 

It’s breakfast, so time for another eggy bread roll. Here you get the other half of the roll, so you can eat it like a sandwich. The egg, mayo, and onion mix comes together more like a salad than one congealed paste. With a shake of fresh pepper, it’s good to go.

Bar Mleczny Targowy

Daszyńskiego 19, 31-537

Targowy, on a wide communist-era boulevard, feels homey with laminate mock-wood flooring and matching tan chairs and tables, a vibe that carries through to a menu of old-school classics like kotlet schabowy, bigos (hunter’s stew with chopped meat, sauerkraut, and fresh cabbage), and—as always—pierogi ruskie. 

Piwowarczyk orders us a plate of naleśniki z serem, twaróg cheese-stuffed pancakes, which are usually dessert. These are what a Polish dessert “ought to be,” according to him—sweet but not overpoweringly so.

Bar Mleczny Pod Temidą

Grodzka 43, 31-001

Temidą is the only true bar mleczny in Krakow’s old town, which means it’s busier and pricier than the others on the list. But who am I to complain about an $8 pork cutlet? The canteen is worth a stop for its interiors alone, low-vaulted ceilings reminiscent of a medieval palace entrance. But the spirit of simplicity remains in dishes like kluski śląskie (Silesian dumplings) served on a plastic lunch tray. These deliciously glutinous gut bombs swimming in a creamy mushroom sauce have a subtle potato flavor and a slightly chewy, dense consistency thanks to the potato starch.

Bar Mleczny Smakosz

Mogilska 58, 31-545 

Smakosz peeks through a lush living wall of greenery (at least during the summer). Turecki suggests a cozy bowl of rosół, Polish chicken soup with a crystal-clear broth; 

noodles like strands of shredded paper; and fresh vegetables like carrots, celery, and onions. It reminds me of what my grandmother would make me as a kid when I was under the weather; I’m not surprised to learn it’s Poland’s natural remedy for colds and flu, too.

Bar Mleczny Pod Filarkami

Starowiślna 29, 31-038 Kraków, Poland

Filarkami, straddling the old town and Kazimierz, feels like a rustic tavern with its faux-brick walls and wooden tables. But the blue plastic trays transport me back to canteen land. Piwowarczyk goes for the kotlet schabowy, a breaded and fried boneless pork cutlet that’s Poland’s answer to wiener schnitzel. “It’s crispy and not too dry—with a bit of moisture yet not overly oily,” he says. It comes with an earthy-smelling grated beet salad that wasn’t what he actually ordered. But like Seinfeld and the Soup Nazi, it’s best to avoid confrontation when dealing with the no-nonsense milk bar ladies. 

Meanwhile, I devour my kasha covered in yet another creamy mushroom sauce that shares the plate with a different beet salad enriched with butter and cream and wash it all down with a mug of tangy kefir. The beet-kefir combo transports me instantly to the Polish countryside.

Bar Mleczny Flisak

Tadeusza Kościuszki 1, 30-105

Occupying the bottom floor of a blocky building with graffiti between the window and entrance, Filsak feels about as far from 2024 as you can get. The trattoria-style red-and-white checkered tablecloths brighten up the joint; so does the food, which feels slightly lighter. The pierogi ruskie aren’t overly doughy, which lets the subtle cheese, potato, and black pepper filling be the star. I try some ogórki kiszone (pickles) on the side, and they pack a tart, salty punch due to their brine in saltwater instead of vinegar. Dessert comes next: ryż z jabłkami, rice with apple, cinnamon, and sweet cream. It isn’t trying to win points for presentation, but it’s surprisingly harmonious—the sweetness of the powdered sugar tempers the acid in the apples, and the grains of rice add textural interest.

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Modern London food was born in the kitchens of the city’s grandest hotels. When Auguste Escoffier, father of modern French cuisine, arrived at The Savoy in 1890 he set in motion a culinary transformation that, small stutters over the years aside (London’s post-war reputation for dismal grub was well-earned), continues to this day. 

Much has changed since. Escoffier brought French culinary technique and hospitality to London, but today’s hotel food scene is far more cosmopolitan. Wagyu beef served shabu-shabu style in the shadow of Marble Arch; arroz de marisco overlooking the redeveloped Battersea Power Station; slow-cooked lamb pie and cask ale in elegant Highgate; some of the world’s best cocktails at a dizzying variety of bars, from the classic to the bracingly contemporary. If you want it, chances are you can get it in one of London’s hotels. 

I was born and have lived most of my life in London. In that time, I’ve  toasted many milestones in hotels—most recently, my mum’s 80th birthday at The Ritz. The dress code, “Gentlemen are required to wear a jacket and tie,” harks back to Escoffier’s era. Elsewhere, though, nearly everything has changed.

Art’otel London Battersea Power Station, Powered by Radisson Hotels

1 Electric Blvd., Nine Elms
+44 333 400 6152

For decades, Londoners looked up at the decaying remnants of Battersea Power Station; now they can marvel at its glimmering renewal while staying at Art’otel or, even better, dining at JOIA, the top-floor restaurant. Portuguese Chef Henrique Sá Pessoa’s pan-Iberian menu focuses on crowd-pleasing classics like acorn-fed ham and bacalhau à Brás, a cozy combination of salt cod, potatoes, parsley, and black olives, as well as the flagship dish, arroz de marisco, fat grains of bomba rice and seafood cooked in a rich, briny bisque. After dinner, descend to the bar, where a heated outdoor infinity pool offers the best view of all. 

Bull & Last

168 Highgate Rd.
+44 20 726 73641

Dozens of London pubs offer accommodation, but for my money, none has better food than the Bull & Last. This Highgate institution recently added seven guest rooms named for local notables. The “Somerset,” for instance, has classically English touches (Roberts radio, Tea Drop tea) and is inspired by Lady Henry Somerset, the Victorian temperance campaigner. Would she have appreciated the gesture? Who cares? The food is of the hearty gastropub variety (lamb pie, sirloin steak), alongside lighter touches. There’s a magpie approach to European ingredients: One moment, you could be tucking into a burrata and grilled asparagus salad; the next, you might be spooning up pumpkin risotto with Tunworth fondue (Tunworth, a Camembert-style cheese, is one of England’s best). Beer comes from London breweries, including two of my favorites, Five Points and Redemption, and there’s always at least one traditional cask-conditioned ale at any time.

Hotel Cafe Royal

10 Air St.
+44 20 7406 3333

Where to start at Hotel Cafe Royal? Maybe at London-born, French-trained Alex Dilling’s eponymous restaurant, where two-Michelin-star cooking is long on contrasting, intriguing textures and playful presentation: On a recent visit, a cucumber salad (served alongside pâté) that looked like a blooming flower was presented with polished silver tongs for depetaling. Albert Adrià’s Cakes And Bubbles is a riotous celebration of witty, elegant sweet treats and champagne. The Grill, notable for its lavish protected 19th-century interior, offers afternoon tea; and then there’s the Green Bar, with its absinthe-centric drinks list. The hotel’s strikingly modern, generously sized rooms are perfect if you need a lie-down after all that.

The Carlton Tower Jumeirah 

1 Cadogan Place
+44 207 235 1234

Breakfast may or may not be the most important meal of the day—don’t ask me, I’m no nutritionist—but it can be the most delicious, particularly in Britain. At The Carlton Tower Jumeirah, enjoy a full English complete with black and white pudding, always a delight particularly if you don’t think about what’s in them. High-class British products are everywhere: yogurt from Hot Jam Lady, butter from Netherend Farm in Gloucestershire. Rooms are simply decorated, comfortable rather than quirky, with a fresh fruit bowl offering what’s seasonal if not quite so local (starfruit and rambutan on a recent visit). The lobby cafe does a great cup of tea, albeit controversially French, produced by Paris’s Mariage Frères.

Kingsland Locke

130 Kingsland High St.
+44 204 529 6160

Kingsland Locke has an on-site brewery run by Kraft, a Franconian-owned operation whose success at their base near Borough Market has seen them pop up all over: a distillery run by Jim & Tonic, founded in East London in 2016, and Nikkei cuisine (a blend of Peruvian and Japanese) from Nativo. While Kraft’s beer can be traditional (I love Heidi, the brewery’s pale lager), this Dalston outpost is more experimental and hop-forward. When the sun shines, there’s a rooftop terrace to enjoy it all on. Kingsland Locke’s pastel-shaded apartments all have kitchens, although the temptation to explore Dalston, home to plenty of excellent Turkish food, may prove too much.

The LaLit London

181 Tooley St. 
+44 203 765 0000

If, like me, you can’t get enough of food from the Indian subcontinent, London is a delight. From Southall in the west, a neighborhood run on crunchy, tangy mixed chaat, to East London’s Tayyabs, home to the city’s most talked-about lamb chops, you’ll never go hungry. The LaLit, housed in a former school on the south bank of the Thames, is a strategic basecamp for an assault on these treasures. Its restaurant, Baluchi, is excellent, and its rooms gently reflect an Indian heritage. Baluchi’s pan-Indian food runs the gamut from slow-cooked lamb shank, a Kashmiri speciality cooked with fennel, cashew, and saffron, to Kathal Ka Kofta, jackfruit dumplings in a cashew-saffron sauce. Don’t miss the “High Chai” afternoon tea, the highlight of which, in my view, is birwam mirch ke pakode, battered padrón peppers stuffed with masala potatoes.

The Mandrake 

20-21 Newman St.
+44 203 146 7770

YOPO, The Mandrake’s restaurant, is for all you aesthetes.  Rainforest-like greenery conjures up the Amazon in a dining room where Kiwi chef George Scott-Toft serves Latin American-inspired fare including crudos (think scallop with leche de tigre, pineapple, and physalis), grilled sirloin with tangy pebre salsa, and chocolate-dipped Argentine alfajores. The 34 guest rooms—dark bed linen, striking art, gilded mirrors—are as quirky and individual as the catering and decoration downstairs.

NoMad London

28 Bow St., WC2E 7AW
+44 203 906 1600

Oscar Wilde held court at the Cafe Royal, but he appeared in court here, at the former Bow Street Magistrates Court. Happily—given Wilde’s tragic downfall—hospitality has replaced justice on Bow Street, in the form of NoMad London. Food and drink are at the heart of this, from the minibar offerings in the rooms (e.g., Mexican-style sour beer made by North London’s Two Tribes) to the restaurant, a soaring, verdant courtyard space. Roasted duck breast with kale and lavender-glazed plums is the standout dish, a masterpiece of balanced richness and acidity. South American flavors dominate at the unusually vibrant hotel bar, aptly named Side Hustle. The rooms, meanwhile, are pleasingly eclectic and busy—which feels true-blue British.  

One Hundred Shoreditch

100 Shoreditch High St., E1 6JQ
+44 207 613 9800

Seed Library, the snug center of a maze of concrete corridors and staircases in the basement of One Hundred Shoreditch, is my favorite London hotel bar —partly because the bartenders are (and you won’t believe this) friendly, and partly because the drinks are creative but not over-complicated. The ambiance is always buoyant (check out the vinyl records along the back wall) but not manic. Pull up a stool and try a fresh, zesty coriander seed gimlet. The same lighthearted mood permeates One Hundred Shoreditch, which—from the slinky-shaped white vases in the bedrooms to the flat whites at the on-site coffee shop—is an object lesson in keeping things simple. It’s the perfect spot from which to explore Shoreditch, home to some of London’s best food, both historical (Beigel Bake on Brick Lane) and modern (Manteca, modern Italian). 

The Prince Akatoki London 

50 Great Cumberland Pl., Marble Arch, W1H 7FD
+44 207 724 4700

There are three main reasons to stay at The Prince Akatoki. The first is the accommodation: Rooms have a mid-century Scandinavian feel (Wegner-style round chairs, pine decor) complemented by Japanese detail such as tea sets and yukata kimonos. Second, the hotel restaurant, TOKii, delights with tangy, fresh dishes like lobster croquettes served with Devon crab on a bed of mango and yuzu salsa. Then there’s The Malt Lounge and Bar, all dark wood and clean lines, which fulfills its brief with an erstwhile gentleman’s club-style conviviality. I usually spring for scotch, but the Japanese whiskies are always tempting, too.

Rosewood London

252 High Holborn, WC1V 7EN
+44 207 781 8888

If any modern hotel can be said to have changed food in London, Escoffier-style, it’s The Rosewood, which opened just over 10 years ago. The Holborn Dining Room, its restaurant, has helped elevate savory pies—which, though they can be delicious, are often a grim blend of gristle and dry pastry. Beautifully crimped here, they’re the work of “Head Pie Maker” Nokx Majozi; try her Dauphinoise potato pie with comté, caramelized onions, and parsley sauce, a buttery, nutty delight. As the focus on ye olde pies suggests, the Rosewood doesn’t take itself too seriously: There are bowls of fun-size candy bars on every floor by the elevator. 

Town Hall Hotel – Shoreditch 

8 Patriot Square, E2 9NF
+44 207 871 0460

Is Da Terra, Town Hall Hotel’s two-Michelin-starred restaurant, the best place to eat in London? Plenty would say so. From the pass overlooking a simply decorated, herringbone-floored room, Brazilian chef Rafael Cagali oversees a nine-course menu long on invention and wit. “Humble chicken,” perhaps the signature dish, is a deconstructed bird (wing, heart, foot, and all) that comes with chicken liver parfait and a wonderfully meaty sauce. If that’s a little heavy for you, Cagali has another restaurant on-site, Elis, with a simpler approach. Like the carefully plated food, guest rooms are individually designed and mix period detail with striking modern touches (think glass pod-style bathrooms). 

The post Where to Stay in London If You Want to Eat Like Royalty appeared first on Saveur.

Until a few decades ago, Barcelona wasn’t what you’d call a first-class food town. Yes, it had great raw materials, marvelous markets, and a rib-sticking regional cuisine with medieval roots. Yet often I found, during my earliest forays into the city back in the 1980s, that restaurant-eating in the Catalan capital was uninspiring: The choices were basically calorific classics (the all-in stew escudella being omnipresent), rice dishes, or char-grilled fish.   

Then the 1992 Olympics happened, and Barcelona morphed practically overnight into a scintillating culture-hub—and the city’s food scene followed suit. All at once there was East-West fusion food and Ferran Adrià-inspired molecular gastronomy—rather too much of that, maybe—but also a brave new vision of contemporary Catalan cuisine. It was a great time to be writing about Barcelona food—and I did, in a large-format cookbook for Williams-Sonoma (Foods of the World: Barcelona), which 20 years later reads almost like a work of culinary nostalgia.   

What came next rolled in like waves on a Mediterranean beach. The 2010s brought food-trucks, supper-clubs and pop-ups; restaurants that only served dessert; Japo-Hispanic sushi joints … In recent years, Barcelona has gotten big into natural wine bars, cocktail bars to conjure with, and teeny-weeny market stalls with zippy zero-kilometer cooking. Tapas—which were never one of Barcelona’s traditional strengths—have finally triumphed, opening the kitchen door to fresh fads in snacking—none more appetizing, in my view, than a revival of the Catalan midday vermouth ritual and the salty-vinegary aperitif repertoire that goes with it.   

And now? Well, it’s as if Barcelona has Magi-mixed all these historic tendencies into a richly delicious emulsion. Places that were once super-hip have become neighborhood standbys, while been-there-forever, dyed-in-the-wool haunts have returned to the forefront of fashion. 

Today’s trends seem destined to seep more permanently into the city’s gastro DNA. Down to the bread and beer, there’s a mainstream embrace of seasonality, craft, plant-based eating, and high-quality ingredients—values that are front and center at a new crop of intimate, bistro-esque restaurants that cropped up during the pandemic. Often situated in less-touristed parts of town, helmed by a sole (often young) chef, and with a handful of tables, these cozy neighborhood joints are notable for being oriented more toward the euro than the tourist dollar. The impulse to be small-scale, hands-on, flexible, and free is surely a sign of the times. But if Barcelona has one thing clear right now, it’s the importance of Big Flavor over every other consideration. And for the food-fixated traveler, that’s a serious advantage.  

Ultramarinos Marín

Calle Balmes, 187 
+34 932 176 552

Is it a bar? Is it an asador (grill)? Behind a 1970s shopfront lies this unclassifiable eatery that’s been all the rage since it opened its doors mid-pandemic. Chefs Borja García and Adrià Cartró specialize in seasonal produce with maximum TLC, and seating arrangements follow the typical Spanish gastro-bar model: best to sit up at the bar to watch the frenzied goings-on in the tiny kitchen. Start with an appetizer of crisp pork chicharrones and home-pickled baby onions, then follow that with mackerel escabeche, char-roast vegetable escalivada, a handful of langoustines still sizzling from the teppanyaki, thinly sliced smoked beef tongue … García and Cartró have no truck with garnishing, saucing, or otherwise gussying up these good and simple things: What you see is, essentially, what you get. Either way, pretty much everything is sensational here—including the fun, boisterous vibe. 

Maleducat

Carrer Mansó, 54
+34 936 046 753

In which chef Victor Ródenas, Barcelona born and bred, draws on the fabulous produce at Mercat de Sant Antoni for a short daily menu that fizzes with imagination. Consider, for instance, a lunch of ajoblanco with tomato slush and fresh tuna, rigatoni stuffed with royale of hare, and slow-roast lamb with Idiazabal cheese and tarragon cream. Thanks to Maleducat (whose name means “Badly Raised”) and a handful of other rebellious chef-powered bistrots, the salt-of-the-earth neighborhood of Sant Antoni at the western end of the Eixample has seen its gastro credentials soar. If this casa de menjars (eating house) has a deliberately plain and workmanlike look about it, the food is anything but basic. 

Estimar

Carrer Sant Antoni dels Sombrerers, 3
+34 932 689 197

If there’s one thing Rafa Zafra understands better than most of his chef contemporaries, it’s that sourcing the very best seafood—say, anchovies from the Cantabrian Sea or big fat shrimps from Roses—is more important than fussy preparations. I like the way Zafra cooks clams, for instance, sautéing them with nothing more fancy than a splash of fino sherry. His chipirones (baby squid), another highlight, are crisp-fried in EVOO, Andalusian-style, and arrive with a side of squid-ink mayonnaise. Desserts, too, have a simple elegance: Zafra starts his flan in the steamer, then rests in a bain-marie for a sublimely silky rendition of this Spanish classic. “Estimar” is Catalan for “to love.” And I do. 

Disfrutar

Carrer Villarroel, 163
+34 933 486 896

Whatever you think of the global hit parade that last year proclaimed Disfrutar the best in Europe and second best in the whole wide world, you’re sure to be awestruck by the terrifically avant-garde $315 tasting menu. Chefs Eduard Xatruch, Oriol Castro, and Mateu Casañas were all cohorts of Ferran Adriá back in the day, and to judge by their cooking at Disfrutar (the name means “Enjoy”), the experience has stuck with them. There’s Bulli-esque wizardry in such creations as the “onion soup” reinvented as a puff of onion “bread” with Comté cheese, coconut squid “meatballs” with a soupçon of curry, and “black apple” cooked for two months at 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The pair of baby cuttlefish surrounded with fresh-pea “spherifications” floats my particular boat with its loving evocation of the Catalan terroir. Unlike at Adriá’s old place, however, at Disfrutar even the pyrotechnics have a nonchalance about them, as if these new-gen chefs had outgrown the desperate need to wow the diner. On a recent visit, for instance, I was invited to reach into a box for one course, which turned out to be a large, succulent red prawn from the port of Vilanova ready to be slurped and savored. Enjoyed, indeed.

Sartoria Panatieri

Carrer de l’Encarnació, 51
+34 931 376 385

Impressively sited in a cavernous white post-industrial space, Sartoria Panatieri has quickly established itself among Barcelona’s leading pizzerie and was even voted number one in Europe in a recent “50 Best” ranking. Pizzaioli Rafa Panatieri and Jorge Sastre use organic, kilometer-zero ingredients and cure their own guanciale and salchichón from rare-breed Gascón pork. Their Roman-style crust, blasted until crisp at the edges in a woodfired oven, is textbook, while the toppings skew more new-gen Spanish: sobrassada and Mahón cheese, wild fennel and honey, and escabeche carrot with goat ricotta, to name a few.

Teresa Carles

Carrer Jovellanos, 2
+34 933 171 829

Plant-based dining still feels somewhat novel in meat-loving Spain. But in Teresa Carles, open since 1979, Barcelona has one of the country’s true pioneers of the genre. Inspired by the Catalan flavors she grew up with, Carles sources fruits, vegetables, and mushrooms from her home village of Algerri (Lleida) and combines them with plant-based “fish” and “meat” to make dishes like hearty vegan escudella and an invigoratingly spiced Malaysian vegetable curry. The stone-fronted locale (also with a takeout section) is an airy, high-ceilinged space with bare brick walls and monochrome floor tiles.  There’s nothing purse-lipped or pious about the vibe—a sign that in Barcelona, just maybe, vegetarian eating is finally coming of age.

Le Grand Café Rouge

Rambla de Prim, 6
+34 932 780 423

It’s easy to forget how close Barcelona is to France, geographically and culinarily—until you meet Romain Fornell, a Toulouse-born chef intent on spreading the gospel of la véritable cuisine française. I first sampled Fornell’s food back in the day at his posh, Ducasse-influenced hotel restaurant Diana, but the “Big Red Café” is far breezier. Sunlight off the Mediterranean floods into the high-ceilinged, white-walled interior, sited at the very end of the Avinguda Diagonal where it meets the sea at the Forum. The menu reads like a brasserie highlight reel: There’s pâté en croûte, onion soup made with Figueres onions and Comté cheese, and bouillabaisse with a puff-pastry crust.  As if wagging his finger at Barcelona’s legion of flaccid tartes Tatins, Fornell’s is impeccably caramelized and crisp. 

Bar Pinotxo 

Mercat de Sant Antoni 18–21, Carrer del Compte d’Urgell, 1
+34 933 171 731

In its first life, Pinotxo (founded 1952) was a tiny bar near the entrance of La Boqueria market where shoppers stopped for a restorative drink and a tapa before schlepping their purchases home. With genial Juanito Bayén and his signature bowtie at the helm, Pinotxo became a pilgrimage site for rustic dishes like beef and potato fricandó, chickpea stew with blood sausage botifarra, and griddled shellfish, always made with market ingredients. So when Juanito passed away last year at 88, it was unclear whether his legacy would live on—until we learned that Pinotxo was reopening in the less touristy, newly restored Mercat de Sant Antoni. Juanito’s nephew Jordi, together with his wife Maria José and son Didac, are now at the helm, and they’ve sensibly changed nothing about the cooking. Perch on a barstool, get yourself a caña (half-pint) of beer or a glass of cava, and let them tell you what’s good today.

Paradiso

Carrer Riera Palau, 4
+34 933 607 211

Barcelona’s cocktail scene has something for every kind of fancy sipper, from the hardcore old-school (Dry Bar, Boadas) to the funky and eclectic (Florería Atlántica, Two Schmucks). But when it comes to contemporary cocktailery, Paradiso, the brainchild of Italian bar supremo Giacomo Giannotti, is hot to trot. From outside, Paradiso looks like a humble sandwich bar (side note: the home-cured pastrami might be the best outside Manhattan), but on most nights, there’s a line around the block. Climb through the door of an old-fashioned fridge, and you’ll soon see why. On a cocktail menu loftily titled “The History of Humanity,” you’ll spot ingredients like rose water, olive oil, saffron, sesame, and seaweed—resulting in high-concept mixology that’s breathtaking when it works, tiresome when it (occasionally) doesn’t. Smoke, mirrors, and VR headsets are all par for the course. Me? I’d like another slurp of the Fleming 1928, a hauntingly delicious concoction of tequila, Mancino vermouth, miso, beer syrup, coconut, grapefruit, and lemongrass.      

La Mundana de Sants

Carrer Vallespir, 93
+34 934 088 023

Tucked behind Barcelona’s central rail station, La Mundana has managed to stay under the tourist radar. It’s the kind of place where neighbors pitch up on a weekend lunchtime for vermouth on the rocks, a ham croqueta or two, and a half-dozen oysters. For the rest of us, it’s a Barcelona gastro-bar, among the best of the variety, where Alain Guiard (ex Sant Pau, F12 Terrassen in Stockholm) and Marc Martín whip up original fusion dishes like pig’s-feet rice with bone marrow and a picada of tarragon and pistachios, and roast cauliflower with fried curry leaves and Café de Paris sauce. (Book well in advance.)

Can Cisa/Bar Brutal

Carrer de la Princesa, 14 and Carrer Barra de Ferro, 1
+34 933 199 881 and +34 932 954 797

Can Cisa/Bar Brutal is the restaurant-bar where Spain’s natural wine revolution began back in 2013, when two vino-obsessed twins stumbled on a dilapidated old space near the Picasso Museum with a “For Rent” sign on the door. The twins in question, Max and Stefano Colombo, from Venice, Italy, had been packing them in at their fine Barcelona restaurant Xemei for nigh-on two decades. But with a little help from their friends, the Colombos created what was then a novelty for the city, offering hundreds of organic, natural and biodynamic wines, many served by the glass (look out for Catalan grape varieties such as xarel·lo and white garnatxa) along with Italian-inflected bar bites like porchetta sandwich, ox tartare with Cipriani sauce, and burrata with trout roe. The convivial atmosphere—not to mention the raffish charm of the interior with its formica tables and antique wooden chairs—makes for a great night out. 

Trópico

Carrer Balmes, 24
+34 938 348 624

Barcelona has taken to the imported concept of brunch like a duck to water, finding it compatible with the lazing, grazing routines of the Spanish weekend. Venues in the city peddling avocado toast and eggs Benedict are two-a-penny these days, but few brunch spots go above and beyond as excitingly as Trópico. Brazilian chef Rodrigo Marco takes the globe-trotting schtick of his original Trópico in the Raval—in a nutshell, foods and drinks from between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn—and runs with it at this new place in the uptown Eixample. Playing out against the natural textures of the light-filled locale is a culinary fiesta that brims with the colors and flavors of the global South, zig-zagging from açaí and ají de gallina to Venezuelan cachapas stuffed with pabellón criollo and patacones with salsa hogao, cilantro, and costeño cheese. Marco’s coxinha, a deep-fried potato croquette stuffed with cheese and chicken, is a loving recreation of a Brazilian barroom staple (not to mention a surefire hangover remedy), while his fish moqueca, fragrant with coconut milk and dendê oil, may be the finest version of this Bahian classic anywhere in Spain. 

The post The Hottest Restaurants and Bars to Try in Barcelona Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

When someone says “Polish food,” what dishes come to mind? If you’ve conjured up images of hearty gołąbki, kiełbasa, and bigos, you’re not alone—as proven by one look at the 71,000-strong Facebook group I Love My Polish Heritage. But back in Poland, people’s eating habits are changing rapidly, and today those traditional dishes are more the exception than the rule.

“Polish people don’t eat pierogi with farmer’s cheese and potatoes, or cabbage rolls, or schabowy much anymore. These dishes do appear on our plates but don’t dominate our diets,” says Michał Korkosz, author of Fresh from Poland: New Vegetarian Cooking from the Old Country, and Polish’d: Modern Vegetarian Cooking from Global Poland. What’s more, meat-and-potatoes is certainly not what’s currently being served in Warsaw’s top restaurants, where a quiet revolution is taking place.

While the wealthy have always enjoyed fat-rich dishes in Poland, the cuisine got markedly stodgier for everyone during communism. “Communism had negative consequences for Polish cuisine. People lacked not just meat but even the most basic ingredients, including spices,” says Monika Milewska, a food anthropologist at the University of Gdańsk who wrote a book about Polish food culture under communism. “The authorities wanted to standardize recipes, which led to the diminishment of regional cuisines. Kuchnia Polska, (“The Polish Kitchen,” published in 1954), a popular cookbook at the time, also promoted fat-rich, heavy dishes.”

Jarosław Dumanowski, a food historian at Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń who is working on a docuseries on the history of Polish cuisine, says the gastronomy was historically characterised by spicy, sour, and umami flavors (from wild mushrooms and smoked meats or prunes); foraged ingredients (mushrooms, bilberries, herbs, and more); ancestral grains such as buckwheat, millet, and barley; and root vegetables like salsify that predate the arrival of potatoes in the 17th century. Fermenting and pickling were popular as well, because not only did it keep vegetables from being spoiled, it was also very much in line with the Polish people’s love of sour foods.

Duck mussels and freshwater fish including pike, lamprey, carp, and lake sturgeons were incredibly important in a country that took religious fasting seriously. “Fasting in Poland was much stricter than in Protestant and other Catholic countries,” Dumanowski says. During that time, the Church forbade not just eating meat but also animal-based products such as dairy and eggs, although fish was allowed. According to Dumanowski, many fasting dishes “resembled the vegan diet of today.” 

Another aspect of Polish cuisine that most often gets ignored by people outside of Poland was that it was heavily influenced by food traditions from all over the world, including the Middle East. By the late Middle Ages, Polish people already had access to spices such as pepper, ginger, cloves, and saffron. “This was the case in all of Europe, but in Poland it just lasted longer,” Dumanowski says.

In the 16th century, Queen Bona Sforza introduced asparagus, carrots, and artichokes from her native Italy, hereto unknown in Poland, forever changing the way Polish people ate. The Italian roots are apparent in the Polish language: Whereas other European languages use words like tomato or tomate for “tomato,” the Polish term is pomidor, which harks back to the Italian “pomodoro.”

Culinary evolution came from within Poland as well via the country’s vibrant pre-war Jewish communities, whose dietary staples included pancakes, latkes and different kinds of noodles. “Jews had been living on Polish lands for thousands of years,” says Magdalena Maślak, culinary program curator at Warsaw’s Museum of the History of Polish Jews. “You can see that influence in both everyday food as well as in holiday dishes.” One example is jellied carp, also known as Jewish-style carp, which is typically served during Christmas Eve dinner and bears striking resemblance to gefilte fish. 

But despite its many influences, Polish food has always been inextricably linked to the land and to the seasons. “We’re eating a lot of meat now, but this is because we’ve been overwhelmed by all the prosperity,” Korkosz says, especially of the older generations. Milewska provided more context: “Under communism, meat became political. Before WWII, peasants and laborers ate it only during the holidays, but the communist authorities promised to change that, so appetites for meat grew. By 1956 there were regular social protests over the lack of meat, which led to the fall of several communist governments.” Meat had such social cachet that there was even a black market for it. “No wonder the older generation is still attached to it, despite the abundance of other products,” says Milewska.

After the transition from communism to capitalism, Polish people had a much wider choice of different foods, most notably at supermarket chains such as Géant, which began popping up all over the country. By the mid-’90s, people started to cook less and eat out more. You could hear older people complain that “lunch used to be a bread roll and kefir, but now it’s a kebab.” Around that time, my father got a gig reviewing restaurants for a Polish daily, and there were plenty of non-Polish spots to talk about including English steakhouses, pizza parlors, and Indian eateries. When I turned 18 and voted for the first time, we celebrated with Chinese food.

These days, Polish chefs and home cooks are not just going out for international food—they’re weaving it into Polish recipes and vice versa, and in turn, are giving the national cuisine a modern twist.

“Poland is going through the same culinary transformation as Scandinavia did in the late 1990s and early aughts with Nordic Cuisine, and it’s beginning to spread all over the country,” says Marcin Przybysz, winner of “Polish Top Chef” and chef at Epoka, a buzzy Warsaw restaurant that gets its inspiration from old Polish recipes. The old-meets-new fusion trend is apparent in the many “New Polish” cookbooks published in both Polish and English, and in the increasing number of restaurants serving dishes like traditional Polish potato dumplings paired with a gorgonzola or camembert sauce (a fan favorite at The Eatery in Warsaw). In Polish’d, Korkosz suggests adding miso paste to żurek (a soup typically served for Easter that uses fermented rye flour) or substituting cream cheese for twaróg (farmer’s cheese) in a Basque cheesecake.

In Poland, “we have a knack for experimentation and changing up what we eat. There’s a bit of fusion in all of us,” Korkosz says. “If I’m talking to someone and they tell me they have dill pickles with hummus for breakfast every day, then this is new Polish cooking.”

Traditional dishes such as pierogi still have their place in Polish cooking, of course, although the fillings now include feta or goat cheese alongside the more traditional twaróg.

Sometimes, moving forward means taking a step back, and in Poland, that means looking back not only at our own traditions, but also the global influences that have left their mark on our food culture. “We’re going back to our roots,” Korkosz says. “We have come full circle.”

The post Moving Past Pierogi: The New Face of Polish Cuisine appeared first on Saveur.

Elemental and unpretentious, Portuguese cooking is born from homes, farms, and fishermen. At its best, it tastes of the sun, olive oil, onions, and ocean. In summer and fall, Lisbon’s markets brim with figs that taste of honey and peaches dense with juice. In winter, downtown praças smell of roasting chestnuts. And in June, sardines sizzle along narrow streets to honor Lisbon’s patron saint, António.  

Chances are, you (or someone you know) has visited Lisbon in recent years. Unprecedented numbers have descended on the capital city in the last decade—and, like the architecture and demographics, the food scene is shifting. The delicious silver lining: A cohort of young chefs has emerged, determined to protect the recipes they grew up eating while also pushing things forward—seemingly enjoying the ride. Their food, better than any of the “new” cooking I sampled while living in Lisbon as a pastry chef 15 years ago, is expressive, compelling, and singular. 

My guide to Lisbon—my mother’s hometown and a city I’ve returned to all my life—includes the standbys that (blessedly) remain intact today, plus new spots exemplifying the changes afoot. The list runs from day to night to show how Portuguese eat and live. If it’s possible to understand a country by peering through a kitchen door, then I hope with this list of restaurants and dishes you’ll recognize the heart of Lisbon—one devoted to family, tradition, beauty, and impractically long gatherings.  Wherever you find yourself, I suggest ordering too many  dishes—grilled squid, head-on shrimp, stinky cheese, soupy rice … Then laze onward. Time moves more slowly here, and this potent food is for savoring.

Torrada at Pastelaria Versailles 

Avenida da República 15A,
+351 21 354 6340

Lisboetas begin their mornings at cafes, either standing at the bar with inky espressos or sitting with a pastry and meia de leite (espresso with warm milk) or galão (diluted with even more milk). While most cafes share a similar menu, they’re not all created equal. Pastelaria Versailles, a gilded art deco building with soaring ceilings, stands out. 

Since 1922, men in bowties have served pastries to ladies who lunch (hair curled, pearls affixed, sensible heels secured) at this Lisbon institution whose doors open at 7:30 in the morning and close at 11 p.m. If you’re in the neighborhood at breakfast hour (which in Lisbon bleeds into lunch), I suggest starting the day with a meia de leite and freshly squeezed orange juice (never skimp on OJ in Portugal; the oranges are sublime). Both will complement the main reason for your visit: a torrada. 

Toast on steroids, torradas are dense, thick slabs of golden white bread slathered on both sides with salty butter. Each piece stands about an inch and a quarter tall, and an order typically includes two slices, with each cut into thirds. Manners are big in Portugal, so the batons make for delicate eating. (Your lips will glisten with butter, regardless.)

Empadas at Quiosque Príncipe Real

Praça do Príncipe Real 19,
+351 ‎21 805 5266

Empadas are darling miniature meat pies that fit in the palm of your hand and are crimped at the edges. They’re made with a buttery dough that, in our home, was cooked before being rolled thin and pressed into small metal tins. Its savory filling, often stewed chicken with perhaps some carrots and peas, got topped with a lid of dough and pinched shut at the edges. An egg wash ensured each one turned a lacquered, nut brown in the oven. Though chicken empanadas are still my favorite, the spinach-stuffed ones are also satisfying when enriched with requeijão, a fresh, milky cheese.

Whenever I’m in Lisbon, I return to the Quiosque in Príncipe Real for a reliable fix (they’re too labor intensive to make solo). This is not a restaurant, rather a stand at the edge of Principe Real park that looks like an information booth. And it punches above its weight in the empada department. I like sitting at one of its sun-soaked tables amid the passing shoppers (on Saturdays, there’s an organic farmers market in the square). 

Beef Croquettes at Gambrinus

Rua das Portas de Santo Antão 23,
+351 21 342 1466

It’s surprising that croquettes aren’t Portugal’s greatest culinary export. These beefy, log-shaped fried morsels are consumed in three to five bites depending on your enthusiasm, and they’re the ultimate beer snack (and kids’ finger food). Made with a mix of braised beef and pork (heavy on the former, lighter on the latter), the filling gets ground up like sausage meat and softened with a touch of bechamel, just enough to make it fudgy (think rillettes but leaner and less livery). The croquettes are then shaped, lightly breaded, and fried to a crisp. 

The best ones are fried on the spot and served hot, the breading so crisp it lets off a puff of steam—part of the appeal. That’s how they come at Gambrinus. Frozen in time, this beloved restaurant has been around since 1936, and it’s got swagger.  The sleek wooden bar, which seats 12, is where I sit. Croquettes come three per order, but if that’s not enough, either get seconds or spring for the garlicky meat sandwich, another house specialty. 

Piri-Piri Chicken at A Valenciana

Rua Marquês Fronteira 157/163A,
+351 21 3884926

Piri-piri, the name for Portugal’s beloved hot sauce, speaks to the country’s fraught history in Southern Africa, where colonists found bird’s-eye chiles and turned them into a marinade that remains popular today. In Swahili, it’s called peri-peri, meaning “pepper-pepper.” The point, however it’s spelled, is pant-kicking heat. In Portugal, it’s most commonly used as a seasoning that’s basted onto spatchcocked chickens grilled on cast iron grates set over white-hot coals.

Frango piri-piri is sold at small takeaways around Lisbon—there’s usually a massive grill and little else. When you pass such a place (you’ll know because of the fat-laced smoke), be sure to enter and get freshly fried potato chips while you’re at it. But for a sit-down meal, follow locals to the go-to grilled chicken depot: A Valenciana. 

Located near the Gulbenkian Foundation (also worth a visit), A Valenciana serves hacked-up whole grilled birds that are all about intense smoky flavor, crackly skin, and succulent meat. Orders come with rice, fries (in Portugal, one carb is never enough), and salad. You’ll quickly appreciate why this dining room, with its poor lighting and unencumbered din, attracts hordes.

Soup at Cantina das Freiras

Travessa do Ferragial 1,
+351 21 324 0910

To understand Portuguese cooking, you must first understand soup. In every Portuguese home I’ve ever visited, soup is served before dinner and, often, at lunch. It’s how children get their vegetables, colds are cured, and stomachs are soothed. Salads, as Americans conceive of them, aren’t really a thing in Portugal. Soup is essential. 

While the most famous Portuguese soup is caldo verde, a potato and onion purée brimming with shredded collard greens and chorizo rounds, the most ubiquitous (and, for my money, comforting) is sopa de legumes. These are comforting veloutés that take no cream. Rather, vegetables (whatever is on hand) simmer until soft with a split onion and, frequently, a potato for creaminess. An immersion blender purées the pot until smooth and voluptuous. I love how light and nourishing these are, tasting of fresh vegetables that grow so easily in Portugal. Sopa de legumes is essentially a fridge-sweep soup that always features carrots, potatoes, onions, and a good slip of olive oil. It is pumpkin-colored and soft. When suffused with wilted greens, it becomes sopa de espinafres (spinach soup); with the addition of chopped green beans, it’s sopa de feijão verde.

At Cantina das Freiras, a self-service canteen on the second floor of an unmarked building in the Baixa, a cozy sopa is almost always on the three-course $7 prix-fixe lunch menu. Tourists have discovered this hideaway, but it’s mostly frequented by Portuguese. Everything is cooked by nuns, with proceeds going to charity. 

Salt–Baked Fish at Porto Santa Maria

Estrada do Guincho, Cascais,
+351 21 487 9450

If given a say, my last great meal will resemble what’s on offer at Porto Santa Maria. The main course will be salt-baked fish. To taste it, you must venture an hour out of the city’s center to a beach called Guincho—but it is well worth it. If you surf, spend the day at the beach (it’s a surfer  magnet) and eat here after. If you’re visiting Sintra, stop here on the way.

Porto Santa Maria’s salt-baked fish is usually 4 to 6 pounds (the catch varies depending on what’s freshest), and you can often pick out the fish you want from a display. Packed in rock salt, it steam-roasts whole, within the thick shell, cooking gently and evenly thanks to the salt granules’ conduction of heat. In the end, juices concentrate as the flesh turns flaky and sticky-tender. 

The serving ceremony demands your full attention: A proud waiter arrives tableside to unearth the fish, using just a spoon and fork to exhume filets without a trace of salt. Simple salads of tomatoes and onions may come with, plus boiled potatoes and greens (with olive oil on the side for drizzling). As your meal begins, a march of little bites will arrive unprompted (these are not free!). They’re all great, but the warm shrimp pastries (Rissóis de Camarão) are incredible. Along with the fish, if you have room or enough dining companions, start with a plate or two of  amêijoas (more on them below) and a crock of seafood rice.

Tosta Mista at Indanoite é Uma Criança

Praça das Flores 8,
+351 937 724 384

In Lisbon, you can find respectable restaurants open until 4 a.m. or later, but In the wee hours, I want the classic ham and cheese sandwich called tosta mista. It’s warm, oozy, and perfectly buttery at Indanoite é Uma Criança, a night-owl bar where musicians play a mix of fado and Brazilian tunes. The door is unmarked and easily missed, and you must ring to be let in. Inside it feels like a speakeasy crossed with a 1970s living room (cigarette smoke and all). The owner makes each sandwich by hand, adding a dash of oregano—his twist.

Amêijoas à Bulhão Pato at Pinóquio

Praça dos Restauradores 79-80,
+ 351 21 346 5106

Not your American clams, amêijoas are tiny, sweet, and supple. To taste them is to understand the Portuguese palate: heaps of minced garlic sizzle in butter and olive oil. In go the clams, along with a glug of wine and a fistful of cilantro. The seasonings are not discreet—some might say they border on obnoxious—but they produce my favorite dish anywhere, always. Slurping and dunking bread into the drippings is as satisfying as getting a sweet little bit of clam. 

In Lisbon, amêijoas à bulhão pato are especially good at cervejarias, large canteens where shellfish, beer, wine, and good eating flow. Ramiro is the most famous, but the less-crammed Pinoquio, located nearby, arguably has superior ameijoas. 

Arroz de Coentros at O Pitéu 

Largo da Graça 95-96,
+351 21 887 1067

In Graça, just above Alfama near São Jorge Castle, is O Pitéu. In my restaurant days, I’d come here on days off. The steep uphill walk allowed for a feast: Sometimes it was fried fish cakes, other times it was a daily special. But I always made sure to get a pot of arroz de coentros, rice perfumed with cilantro. Presented in a dinked-up pot with a large metal spoon, it’s enough to make a meal of, though it’s only served as an accompaniment. 

A word on rice: The Portuguese take it seriously. In Comporta, an hour or so from Lisbon,  there’s a museum devoted to it. When it’s soupy, like a thinned out risotto, it signals special occasions. But, unlike in the Italian dish, this rice is long grain, resulting in a less gloopy and starchy texture. Olive oil is the fat of choice, and cheese is never considered. 

Pastéis de Bacalhau at Pica-Pau

Rua da Escola Politécnica 27,
+351 21 269 8509

Salt cod is king in Portugal, which is odd for a country with 1,100 miles of coastline and abundant fisheries. Still, it’s as prized today as it was during the age of discovery, when slabs crossed the Atlantic to feed a ship’s crew amid open waters.

There are countless salt cod dishes in Portugal, but my favorite is pastéis de bacalhau, hot fried quenelles of cod and riced potato. To make them, cod is soaked to dislodge its salt cure. Once boiled until easily shredded, it is mixed with the warm potato, plus some parsley, and shaped into tapered cylinders to fry in olive oil (no flour dusting nor breadcrumb coat). 

At Pica-Pau, the seasoning—parsley, sauteed onions, a bit of garlic—hits all the right notes, tempering but not overshadowing the cod. Unlike other places that skimp on fish and load up on starch, here everything seems to be made with the young chef’s ancestors’ approval. There is cod aplenty.

Picanha at A Picanha

Rua das Janelas Verdes 96,
+351 21 390 2200

A papal decree in 1494 divided the “New World” between two powers, Spain and Portugal, which is how Brazil became the only Portuguese-speaking nation in South America. Brazil gained its independence in 1822, but its cultural ties to the European nation remain strong (if fraught). Today, an estimated 250,000 Brazillians live in Portugal, and their presence is palpable, especially in Lisbon. 

Among the city’s many Brazilian imports are churrascarias, temples of grilled meat. When I lived in Lisbon, Picanha, on a quiet street between Lapa and Santos, gave me my fix. The restaurant is named after the picanha cut, from the upper portion of the rump, which is considered the best in Brazil for its marbling and tenderness. After being roasted on a large spit, it is shaved onto plates in thin, rosy slices. The meat is your reason for coming here, but the black beans are good too. If you’re like me, you’ll want to wash it all down with a sugary, limey caipirinha. 

Bebinca at Cantinho Da Paz

Rua da Paz 4,
+351 96 501 4667

When I lived in Lisbon, I’d visit O Cantinho da Paz for a sweet, heady Goan curry. Then, this past summer, Tomos Parry—a British chef with some of the buzziest restaurants in London—reminded me of a dish I’d once had there upon a waiter’s insistence: bebinca, a striated pudding dense with egg yolks and ghee that eats like a flan crossed with a layer cake. It makes the perfect end to the meal, especially with an espresso.

Pastel de Nata at The Decadente

Rua de São Pedro de Alcântara 81,
+351 91 118 3459

Speaking of eggy desserts, it’s high time we discuss Portugal’s most famous: pastel de nata. Two-inches across and an inch tall, it’s a squat mini-tartelette. The flaky dough is like filo crossed with puff pastry, and the filling is (yes) heavy on the yolks but lightened with milk and cinnamon. Baked until blackened on top—the faint bitterness taming the custard—they are best served warm and dusted with cinnamon.

But the pastel de nata I crave is an unorthodox riff served at The Decadente. It comes by the slice, and the custard is leaner and less saccharine, tasting of milk and cinnamon first, eggs and sugar second. It’s a surprising reinvention that even diehard traditionalists should get behind. 

The post The Top 13 Dishes to Try in Lisbon appeared first on Saveur.

People have been writing about Rome for more than two millennia, which means visitors have wanted to know what to eat there for at least as long. I’ve only been at it for 20 years, but in that time I’ve devoted my life to Roman food through writing cookbooks, hosting and participating in TV shows, and leading small-group food tours. 

Things have come a long way from the ostrich stew and flamingo tongues that graced ancient noble tables—indeed, many of the dishes we eat in Rome today developed during the 20th century as a reflection of local agriculture, migration, and national unification. Even so, many quintessential cucina romana ingredients—like sheep’s milk cheese, guanciale, offal, and mint—were beloved by the ancients, even if they’re used in different ways today. Staples such as tomatoes, black pepper (then a fabulously expensive spice), and dried pasta, on the other hand, are completely modern.

What follows is by no means an exhaustive list of Roman specialties. That would fill an entire volume. (Take it from me—I’m currently writing a cookbook on the subject.) To eat like a Roman, you’ll want to hit up street food spots for supplì, bakeries for pizza rossa, and trattorias for dishes like rigatoni con la pajata and trippa alla romana. Whether you’ve been to Rome a dozen times or are brand new to the city, these are the essential spots to keep on your radar. 

Supplì Classici at Supplizio

Via dei Banchi Vecchi 143
+39 06 8987 1920

Supplì are fried rice croquettes shaped like goose eggs. Call them arancine at your own risk—those are the spherical or pyramidal rice balls popular in Italy’s south. Classic supplì start with a beefy risotto, sometimes enriched with bits of sausage or chicken innards. The cooked rice is formed around a piece of mozzarella, then breaded and fried. When made properly, you’ll get a satisfying cheese pull upon digging in. That’s how the dish earned the nickname supplì al telefono, a throwback to when phones had cords. Chef Arcangelo Dandini has mastered every aspect of classic supplì–the rice is perfectly al dente and appropriately seasoned, the breaded exterior is crisp and golden, and the cheese pull is a guarantee.

Pizza Rossa at Panificio Bonci

Via Trionfale 36
+39 06 3973 4457

“Red pizza” is sold by weight at bakeries and slice joints across the city. The cheeseless classic, which can be breakfast or a snack, consists of lightly seasoned raw tomato sauce brushed over shaped dough. Next, it’s baked until the crust is crispy and chewy and the tomato has concentrated slightly without losing its acidic edge. At Panificio Bonci, famed baker and Chef’s Table protagonist Gabriele Bonci demonstrates his pizza rossa prowess in an ethereal version that adds a hint of whole-wheat flour for nuttiness and complexity. Each slice is finished with a glug of floral extra-virgin olive oil that pools in the crannies of the dimpled dough.

Minestra di Broccoli e Arzilla at Cesare al Pellegrino

Via del Pellegrino 117
+39 06 6880 1978

Roman fish mongers are known for their elaborate displays, but perhaps no specimen is as eye-catching as the bony, cartilaginous, and downright prehistoric-looking skate. In spite of its waning popularity, the ray subspecies remains a fixture on traditional tables, a reminder of the Catholic custom of abstaining from eating meat on Fridays and preparing fish dishes instead. Romans aren’t as devout as they used to be but still adhere to this tradition. During the cool months, when romanesco is in season, Leonardo Vignoli of Cesare al Pellegrino makes minestra di broccoli e arzilla on Fridays. The brothy soup is made with deboned skate, the knobby cauliflower-like romanesco, and a hint of tomato. It’s one of the few dishes anywhere in Italy that calls for broken spaghetti, added to the broth for texture and heft.

Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe at Baccano

Via delle Muratte 23
+39 06 6994 1166

Cacio e pepe, literally cheese and pepper, has become a ubiquitous flavor combination in Rome, appearing as a pizza topping, supplì filling, and potato croquette flavoring. The trend has hit American shores, too, where chefs are cacio e pepe-ing everything these days. The dish’s origins, however, are as a Roman pasta sauce featuring Pecorino Romano and black pepper combined with a little water and tossed with long strands of pasta, typically tonnarelli (fresh, squared-off spaghetti). Many ristoranti have taken to combining Pecorino Romano with cow’s milk Parmigiano-Reggiano to temper the intense saltiness of the former, but at Baccano, chef Nabil Hadj Hassen keeps things old-school with just Pecorino. His other secret: freshly ground Sarawak black pepper from Malaysia, which offers piquant fruitiness and woodsy complexity, instead of the usual one-note pepper of unknown provenance.

Rigatoni alla Gricia, Spaghettoni alla Carbonara, and Bombolotti all’Amatriciana at Salumeria Roscioli

Via dei Giubbonari 34 
+39 06 687 5287

Rome’s famous pasta dishes—gricia, carbonara, and amatriciana—have two key ingredients in common: savory, fatty guanciale (cured pork jowl) and punchy Pecorino Romano. (Just don’t call them the “three pastas of Rome”—that would be selling us short!) Happily, at gourmet deli-cum-wine bar Salumeria Roscioli, which just opened a New York City offshoot, you can try exceptional versions of all three. Their secret is artisanal cured pork jowl from Le Marche, which they cube and confit into crunchy yet tender morsels. Both the rigatoni alla gricia and spaghettoni alla carbonara share a trinity of freshly milled southeast Asian black pepper varieties, but only the latter is extra creamy with eggs. Not just any uova, mind you: We’re talking yolks from heritage-breed hens fed on goat’s milk that fetch $20 a dozen at the counter. Don’t sleep on the amatriciana, though; its tomato sauce is made with gorgeous, ultra-ripe fruit picked in Campania.

Bombolotti al Sugo di Coda at Cesare al Casaletto

Via del Casaletto 45
+39 06 536015

Coda alla vaccinara is a dish of braised oxtails simmered in a celery-rich tomato sauce for hours until falling off the bone. On their own, the oxtails are soulful and satisfying, but for me, it’s all about the leftover sauce infused with marrow and studded with rogue bits of melty meat. At Cesare al Casaletto, that deeply rich, brick-hued sauce is tossed with bombolotti—“half” rigatoni, also called mezze maniche—and topped with thick shavings of Pecorino Romano. The bits of meat settle pleasingly in the tubular architecture of the pasta, and the sheep’s milk cheese brings a piquant and savory note that ties it all together.

Fettuccine con Rigaglie di Pollo and Rigatoni con la Pajata at Armando al Pantheon

Salita de’ Crescenzi 31

It’s hard to imagine chicken innards being a seasonal ingredient, but Romans traditionally celebrated festivals with poultry and all of its associated parts in the summer, especially around the mid-August Assumption holiday. For decades, local cooks have been simmering livers, gizzards, and hearts with tomato sauce and aromatics and tossing them with thick fettuccine for a celebratory, hearty meal. Nowadays the dish is served year round, and my favorite version comes from Armando al Pantheon. There, in the brown leather banquette-trimmed dining room, the Gargioli family takes pride in cooking each organ in stages to ensure they remain sweet and tender—and never funky. Staying with the offal theme, Armando also serves rigatoni con la pajata, pasta tossed with the intestines of milk-fed veal cooked in tomato sauce, albeit only in the spring and late summer when veal are suckling. If you’re still with me, you probably want to know that the mother’s milk cooks inside the intestine, becoming a sweetly lactic foil to the tangy tomato sauce.

Allesso di Bollito at Mordi e Vai

Mercato di Testaccio, Stall 15
Via Beniamino Franklin

Allesso di bollito is another stewed beef stunner, but this Roman classic is made with brisket and flavored with celery and carrots. It was traditionally made by butchers, as brisket was once an off-cut that butchers took home at the end of the day. Alesso di bollito is the starting point for other Roman classics like bollito alla picchiapò (leftover bollito reheated in a mildly spicy tomato sauce) and polpette di bollito (leftover bollito shredded with breadcrumbs and aromatics, then breaded and fried). At Mordi e Vai, they make them all, calling their preparation allesso di scottona, signifying the meat is from a young, calfless cow. Each is used as a sandwich filling at their stall in Testaccio Market, not far from where the late founder Sergio Esposito worked at the city’s slaughterhouse from the age of 16.

Trippa alla Romana at Santo Palato

Piazza Tarquinia, 4 a/b

To make trippa alla romana, honeycomb tripe—one of several cow stomachs—is fastidiously cleaned, boiled until tender, cut into strips, then stewed in a mint-spiked tomato sauce before receiving a final dusting of grated Pecorino Romano. The dish is so integral to Roman cuisine that it has Roma in its name. Though typically prepared with a deep, concentrated sauce, chef Sarah Cicolini’s version at Santo Palato is pleasingly lighter, as the tomatoes are barely cooked,  leaving the final product light and bright—not unlike the decor of the trattoria itself.

Coda alla Vaccinara at Tavernaccia Da Bruno

Via Giovanni da Castel Bolognese 63
+39 06 581 2792

There are two schools when it comes to coda alla vaccinara, or Roman braised oxtails. One is more flamboyant, its tomato sauce fragrant with cocoa powder, pine nuts, and raisins. The other is humbler and relies mainly on celery and tomatoes for flavor. Chef Giuseppe Ruzzettu of Tavernaccia Da Bruno favors the latter, and so do I. It comes as a secondo—just the meat, no garnish. The only addition it really requires is a napkin to tuck into your shirt as you excavate the bone’s crevices in hands-on enjoyment. Silverware, of course, is optional.

Misticanza at Piatto Romano

Via Giovanni Battista Bodoni 62
+39 06 6401 4447

Stroll through any Roman market and you’re bound to find bins piled with misticanza, mixed wild greens. In Roman trattorie, more often than not, misticanza is prepared “ripassata in padella”: blanched, drained, then cooked in oil and garlic. At Piatto Romano, misticanza is served in all its raw glory as a salad, and a rather substantial one at that for a city unfamiliar with the salad-as-meal concept. Several varieties of chicory, poppy greens, and wild herbs are dressed with anchovy sauce and sumac (a bit of creative license), their herbal and bitter flavors standing out and standing up to the potent dressing. The greens are served as a starter or as a contorno (a vegetable side dish accompanying a main course) with a steak knife to cut all the hearty stems and leaves into bite-size pieces.

Torta Ricotta e Visciole at Boccione

Via del Portico d’Ottavia 1
+39 06 687 8637

The glass display case at Boccione Forno del Ghetto, an unmarked yet world-renowned bakery on the main street in Rome’s Jewish Ghetto, is filled with round cakes with slightly charred tops and edges. The shortbread crust obscures the fillings: old-school ricotta e visciole (sour cherry) and new-school ricotta e cioccolato (chocolate). The combination of sweet ricotta and tart sour cherry jam, a ubiquitous combination at local bakeries, has Roman Jewish origins and reaches its fullest expression at this multi-generation kosher establishment. Buy the whole cake, or spring for a single slice, which you can savor gloriously yet un-glamorously sitting on the curb outside.

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