The Honduran capital does not have a very good reputation. It may not be as dangerous as its northern counterpart (San Pedro Sula), after all it is only the 3rd most violent city in the world, but it is by no means a tourist-trap. Travelers either seem to be here on business, or reluctantly spending the night on their way to Nicaragua or the Bay Islands. Having been in Honduras for 9 months now, we decided that we must take the 4 hour bus journey south to see what the capital had to offer. Tegucigalpa (or Tegus, to those in the know) surprised us in so many ways. It is both historical and modern, and large yet beautiful. It really is an exciting city. Those who know me will know that I like to discover a city through its food and drink offerings, so here is how I would spend…

The young Korean man whose family owns the Jogae Gui (shellfish barbeque) restaurant is plating mussels. He is standing in a makeshift extension that houses bubbling saltwater tanks full of clams, mussels, scallops and oysters. He expertly cracks open their shells in one sharp twist of his knife, and lays them out on a flat, white ceramic dish that is then served to his customers. He’s always out there in his white rubber boots attending to the shellfish, cracking, splitting and displaying their contents as a jeweler would his finest pearls. He must have split a thousand shells since we’ve been neighbors. Sometimes we exchange nods of recognition, and his exquisite cheekbones and deft knife work make each of our small encounters fleetingly exhilarating. However, I’m only too aware that any form of distraction may well send the knife plunging deep into the flesh if his ungloved hand, so I…

The first Dutch recipes for apple pie appeared in the late 1400's; that's way before Rembrandt van Rijn and the old masters. In Amsterdam, Dam Square and the Single existed, but none of the other main canals had even been thought of. Apple pie beat them all to it. Of course it was a little different then. The case or 'coffyn' as it was charmingly known as was no more than a casing – a container of whatever was within; a way of carrying it around. Because there were no baking pans, the crust was probably – well crusty and horrible. It's said that baking time was measured by the number of prayers a person had to say until a pie was ready. But gradually, with changes to cooking methods and ingredients, pastry - and the pie as we know it - came into its own.Pie in the making. De…

  All of France has descended on this small Basque village sandwiched between the Pyrenean foothills and the Atlantic Ocean.  We abandon our car almost a mile outside the settlement and follow the hordes that stream into the narrow country track snaking upwards to Espelette. Chic French women in elegant dresses and high heels pick their way over rough stone, sticky clay earth and sodden autumn leaves. High-spirited children weave through the grown-ups. Fathers force buggies over uneven ground. The smell of smoke and damp, decaying foliage tickles the nose. The muted sound of sheep-bell mingles with the excited mumble of voices. There is an air of expectation on this bright October Sunday morning. Espelette’s population may be less than two thousand but the village can make a number of claims to fame: the discovery of the giant panda (Father Armand David) and the resting place of the first Miss…

We were the first to arrive at the metro Louvre-Rivoli. The scheduled meeting time was 10.30, but we were raring to go. An American lady approached, looked us squarely in the eye and said one word - ‘chocolate?' Over the next 10 minutes another twenty sweet-freaks swelled our ranks. We were on a mission - “The Paris Chocolate Tour” - devoting the next couple of hours to the dark stuff, a liberal sprinkling of history and anecdote mixed with chocolate and pastry tastings. Iris, our guide, like a celebrity gossip columnist, bought historical personages to life, dishing the dirt on their relationship with chocolate. Queen Marie Thérèsa, the wife of Louis XIV, consoled herself by drinking chocolate while the Sun King neglected her. Mixing her ‘chocolat chaud’ with spices, sugar and nuts, she consumed such vast quantities that it rotted her teeth, but allowed her supporters to claim that the…

In a corner of eastern France, there exists a unique culture that has evolved from two very different sources. I spend time with a local and friend who explains how the area developed its unique identity. Traveling with him, I see through his eyes how the region has retained its identity despite centuries of invasion, subjugation and an ever-changing world around it.Jean-Claude Werner, the kind old man with the French first name and the German surname, looks out over the Vosges Mountains. The Black Forrest is in the distance. He can see into Germany. Squinting in the morning sun, he points eastward toward France’s old enemy.“See how close we are? That’s how we developed our identity. One culture bled into the other over time.” Then he grins. “And we had plenty of time.”The older gentleman exudes a certain poise; a polite geniality. It’s what one might describe as an “old-world”…

To experience the essence of Thailand and the underlying core of its rich culture, you must sample the zesty local cuisine. Thai cuisine is a mix of ancient Chinese stir-frying techniques, Siamese style mixed meat and vegetables, heavy Indian curry influence, and renowned customary marinades. Locally grown spices and herbs are used, including garlic, smoldering hot chilies (phrik), hot curry, lemon grass (takhrai), black pepper (phrik thai), sour makrut lime, and shallots. These spices are infused with coconut milk, oils, coconut cream, sugar cane and vinegars for a fiery explosion of tastes. So what is the difference between green curry, yellow curry, and red curry? The distinction in specific pastes is the chilies used and spices added. Green curry consists of green chilies, red curry consists of red chilies, yellow curry adds cumin and peppercorn, and Massaman curry consists of a slight twinge of cinnamon. Phuket boasts hundreds of market…

What is that pale green stuff coming out of tubes or situated in tiny mounds next to sashimi? It’s got as much to do with real wasabi as going to a tanning salon has to do with a day at the beach. Still, you get the point from dabbing raw fish into it— it accentuates the flavors, provides contrast with texture, and gives hints of bitterness that play with the sweetness of the sashimi. But the wasabi we get here is horseradish dyed green. Horseradish has plenty of flavor and tastes good, but it’s not wasabi.

Tenuta la Pazzaglia is a small vineyard with thirty acres under vines and five acres under olives. The first bunches of grapes you will see when arriving at Pazzaglia Winery are on the cheeks of the Randolfo Verdecchia, the owner of Tenuta la Pazzaglia. His smile is as radiant as his vineyard. The warmth of his welcome is unparalleled.

My fiancé and I had grown tired of the familiar attractions in Atlantic City that we’d seen before. Upon coming across “Flames,” which suits its name, we immediately fell in love with the décor. It was an outdoor café, located a few blocks from the Atlantic City Hilton Casino Resort, where we were staying for a week. Easy on the eyes, the lovely beach bar was central to all of the excitement, yet it hovered in a realm of its own, offering the tranquility of being on an island paradise away from civilization. Our wooden table was covered with ivory linen and nicely shaded by a tall umbrella. Atop the tables were Red Burgundy wine glasses filled with fresh spring water.

Growing up as an American in Saudi Arabia meant spending most days behind the concrete walls of our compound in Al-Khobar. It was illegal for women to drive, or even sit in a car with a man other than her husband, so day trips outside of Al-Bustan village were limited to the one day a week when my father could take us on the road in his company car. So when my mother and her friend planned a trip for our families to Al-Hofuf, a city about an hour and half to the south, we were thrilled at the prospect of escaping the compound for the day.

We had driven twenty-one hours, endured the elements, one another’s company, McDonald’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner, in preparation for the culinary delights of Melbourne’s Chinatown. If there’s one thing I miss when I’m at school in Australia it would have to be the food at home: the savory rice, the chilies, the fresh green vegetables and juicy ripe fruits. My pathetic attempts at cooking anything similar often ends in watered down curries, crunchy rice and charred pots and pans.

You love traveling. You love peeking in on other cultures. And you try to participate—not merely observe—by joining the locals in their customs, eating the food, drinking the drink. So what is it like when an allergy prevents you from partaking in full? Let me tell you: When the region is Bavaria and the drink is beer—in fact the best beer in the world—it ain’t easy to say no.

As we turned off the road and into the orchard, my gaze broke from the rugged alpine peaks in the distance. Adolf had started speaking and I looked to the front of the carriage to listen as he leaned over his shoulder: “And these apples get sold all over the world…” he explained, tipping his wide-brimmed felt hat towards the stout trees on our right.

If it’s your first time in Russia, chances are you’ll be thrown by the Cyrillic, even if you’ve diligently studied the alphabet charts in your guidebook beforehand. The mix of recognizable Roman and Greek characters and the Russian ones with no English equivalents will be charmingly baffling and somewhat disorienting for about four hours, or until you get seriously hungry. Even simple staples like kulibeka, a bread with white mushrooms or cabbage baked inside, or moiva, a small dried fish served whole as an appetizer, or the traditional fermented wheat beverage krace, a sort of peasant’s pop like a dark near beer, are hard to translate, let alone order. Never mind delicacies such as pickled garlic or pike-and-perch soup. I Had Borscht because I could say it, though I hadn’t touched beets since some unpleasantness at age five.

Lighthouse Picnics was one of the best and utterly unique meal experiences I’ve had. An old lighthouse that sits on a crest of rock overlooking the tattered coast of Newfoundland was restored recently and made into this great restaurant by two women – one of whom went to organic cooking school in Ireland, and the others’ family had been the lighthouse keeper’s years before. The food is fantastic, though there is not a huge selection – each day there are three specials and three cakes.

Las Vegas is the fattest city in America, according to Men’s Fitness magazine, which has published a survey of the most and least healthy spots in the country over the past ten years. That’s up from #2 in 2006. Viva Las Vegas!

One of the most intriguing things about eating in Korea is that occasionally the food can be delicious and frightening at the same time. My wife and I were very new in Korea, having relocated there only a month earlier to work at a local private school when one night, while we were relaxing in a small park, our boss found us and invited us to an important dinner at a raw fish restaurant.

Burdick’s hot chocolate is definitely the best in Harvard Square, and I would go so far as to say the best in all of New England. The richness of its consistency is incomparable. It is like dipping a straw deep into a softly steaming molten chocolate bar, Ahh…