Midnight Rambler

Consider, for example, the Silvertone cocktail at Dallas’s Midnight Rambler, which partner Chad Solomon describes as a “neo-classical” take on the original. Made with gin or vodka, dry vermouth, and orange bitters, and garnished with house-pickled onions, it follows the basic template for a Gibson. But he also adds saline solution and a full ounce of Texas “Crazy Water,” a local mineral water, to the mix. It still looks, smells, and tastes like a martini, but it feels weightier on the tongue, and that minute dash of salt creates a seawater-like effect. Overall, it makes the drinker feel off-kilter, like having a martini while jet-lagged.

No matter how bartenders tweak and “improve” upon the classic martini, however, one aspect doesn’t change: the ritual of making it. Though the cocktail has crossed over centuries, it’s still poured, stirred, and presented with care—if not outright reverence. Whether your drink of choice skews toward classic versions or next-generation modern riffs, head to one of the following cocktail dens and other destinations to enjoy a martini right now:

Maison Premiere, Brooklyn, NY

Although it’s best known for oysters and absinthe, this New Orleans-by-way-of-Williamsburg bar recently introduced tableside martini service for two with the Old King Cole martini. It’s a nod to Martini di Arma di Taggia, a bartender who some credit with creating the martini at New York’s Knickerbocker Hotel in 1912. Of note, the Old King Cole mural painted by Maxfield Parrish (which now hangs in the St. Regis Hotel), originally was commissioned for the Knickerbocker.

Instead of London Dry gin, this martini variation features Old Raj gin, made with saffron for a spicy flavor and light straw hue. A sidecar of various garnishes (buttery Castelvetrano olives, elaborately “manicured” lemon peel, even seaweed) encourages guests to customize their drink. To make it, combine 3 oz. Old Raj gin, ¼ oz. Dolin dry vermouth, and 2-3 dashes orange bitters in an ice-filled mixing glass. Stir and strain into a martini glass. Serve with a sidecar of ice, Castelvetrano olives skewered with a pin, a lemon twist, and seaweed.

Maison Premiere
298 Bedford Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11211

Midnight Rambler

Midnight Rambler, Dallas, TX

Named for a Rolling Stones song, this rock & roll-inspired newcomer set in a dark subterranean space is the brainchild of bartending vets Chad Solomon and Christy Pope. Their drink the Silvertone is “a twist on the Gibson martini,” Solomon says. “Gibson is also a musical instrument company which produced a specific brand of sound equipment sold at Sears from 1915-1972 that was named Silvertone.” What makes this drink so different is the addition of Crazy Water—a high-alkaline mineral water from Mineral Wells, Texas, that gives the drink a noticeably substantial weight on the tongue—as well as a couple of dashes of saline solution for extra "pop." The addictive, slightly spicy cocktail onions are pickled in-house using white vinegar, Dolin dry vermouth, chipotle peppers, sage, grapefruit and lemon peels, and coriander seed. Combine 1 oz. mineral water, ½ oz. Dolin dry vermouth, 2½ oz. Beefeater 24 Gin, 1 dash orange bitters, and 2 drops mineral saline in a mixing glass with ice. Stir and strain into a coupe glass. Garnish with 2 house-pickled onions on a pick.

Midnight Rambler
1530 Main St
Dallas, TX 75201

Townsman

Townsman, Boston, MA

After a decade as chef/owner of Farmstead in Providence, RI, Matt Jennings has returned to Boston to pay homage to New England cuisine. An “all the fixins” approach to martinis gives guests the opportunity to dress up their drink with a lemon twist, Caselvetrano olive, and house cocktail onions pickled with sherry vinegar, juniper, star anise, and Szechuan pepper. The restaurant’s signature martini, inspired by the first dry martini recipe published in the 1896 printing of Stuart’s Fancy Drinks and How to Mix Them, is served in a mini carafe on ice alongside the chilled cocktail glass, so guests can refill as needed. Stir together 2½ oz Plymouth gin, 1 oz Dolin dry vermouth de Chambéry, 1 dash Fee’s orange bitters, and 1 dash Regan’s orange bitters in a mixing glass until well-chilled. Strain half of drink into a frosted Nick & Nora glass and the rest into an iced carafe. Garnish with a lemon twist, pickled onion, and Castelvetrano olive.

Townsman
120 Kingston St
Boston, MA 02111

Vie, Western Springs, IL

Chef Paul Virant’s mainstay in the Chicago suburbs is known for its low-key, farm-to-table approach to French fare, including a strong wine list that leans heavily on offerings from France. Their wine-inspired reverse martini was created by bar manager Bill Anderson in an effort to convince a favorite, wine-loving customer to try a “proper cocktail.” The end result: this wine-lover’s apéritif utilizing three different wine pours in place of vermouth (which is made with wine, after all). Anderson’s offer to the customer: if she didn’t like the cocktail, he’d bring her a glass of wine on the house. (She liked it.) Stir together 1 oz. chardonnay (“butter-fest Napa style” preferred, Anderson says), 1 oz. albarino, 1 oz. Banyul dessert wine, ½ oz. Bols Genever, ½ oz. North Shore No.6 Gin, and 5 drops Meyer lemon tincture in a mixing glass with ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with a lemon twist. If you don't have a Meyer lemon tincture, below is Bill's recipe, or you can substitute with a few drops of a manufactured lemon or orange bitters; real lemon juice would be too acidic and the tincture helps impart warmth and depth.

To make the Meyer lemon tincture: Remove the peels from three Meyer lemons, being careful to avoid as much pith as possible. Place the peels in a glass mason jar and pour in a neutral grain spirit, such as gem clear or everclear, to cover the peels. Seal and let sit for one week. Strain out through a cheesecloth and discard the peels. Best used with a dropper.

Vie
4471 Lawn Ave #100
Western Springs, IL 60558

Sable Kitchen & Bar

Sable Kitchen & Bar, Chicago, IL

Located in Chicago’s River North neighborhood inside the Hotel Palomar, this bustling, high-energy “American gastro-lounge” references 1940s glamour as well as industrial touches in its décor. Their Fake Tales of San Francisco, created by bartender Mony Bunni, is a savory, herbal martini riff. This drink really layers on the herbal notes, starting with St George’s “Terroir” gin, a particularly pine-forward variation, followed by Salers Gentiane, a French apéritif wine made from gentian, the root of a wild plant that grows at high altitudes—here, used in place of the traditional vermouth. Accented by a small amount of herbaceous green Chartreuse and a dose of celery bitters, this green-tinged drink is an adventurous take on the classic cocktail. In a mixing glass, stir together 1½ oz. St. George Terroir gin, 1 oz. Salers apéritif gentiane liqueur, ½ oz. green Chartreuse, and 2 dashes celery bitters with ice. Strain into a chilled Georgian glass. Twist a lemon peel over top of the drink to express oils and then use to garnish drink.

Sable Kitchen & Bar 505 N State St
Chicago, IL 60654

Terrine

Terrine, Los Angeles, CA

This airy California brasserie opened in December and focuses on rustic meat-centric dishes—think terrines (of course), choucroute, and duck stew. They have printed “Martini Cards” to help educate guests about their individual martini preferences. The card includes Wainwright’s own recipe, an 1895 recipe from mixologist George Kappeler (author of Modern American Drinks), and space to jot down the makings for a customized combination (a choice of gin or vodka, preferred vermouth, etc.). Their Plymouth martini, a classically-styled apéritif, sets the pace. Head bartender Ryan Wainwright makes a point of expressing lemon peel oils into the glass first, not last, so the oil will “fold into the drink.” In a cocktail goblet, twist the lemon peel over the glass first, expressing the oil into the glass. Set lemon peel aside. Stir together 2 oz. Plymouth gin, 1 oz. Dolin dry vermouth, and 1 dash Regan’s orange bitters with large ice cubes, strain into glass, and garnish with lemon peel.

Terrine 8265 Beverly Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90048

Cooper Lounge

Cooper Lounge, Denver, CO

Within the recently refurbished Union Station, a stunning Beaux Arts building originally built in 1914, this bar is set in a mezzanine space and is meant to evoke the Stork Club or the Starlight Room in the 1940s. For those who prefer a sweeter drink, their Cosmo de Oro spans the realm between classic martini and Cosmopolitan. Unlike the supersweet pink concoction that symbolized Sex and the City-style excess in the 1990s and early 2000s, the golden-tinged Cosmo de Oro (oro means “gold” in Spanish) shows some restraint. Made with Silver Tree vodka, a small-batch spirit from Denver producer Leopold Bros. and Cocchi Americano, an apéritif wine, in place of dry vermouth, the drink is then lightly sweetened with orange liqueur and white cranberry juice. As with all the cocktails here, this drink is served “club car style,” presented on a silver tray with a small dish of spiced nuts or other nibbles on the side. Combine 1½ oz. Silver Tree Vodka, ½ oz. Leopold Bros. American orange liqueur, ½ oz. Cocchi Americano, 1 oz. white cranberry juice, and a splash of lemon juice in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Cooper Lounge 1701 Wynkoop St
Denver, CO 80202

The Mezzanine at L.A. Chapter, Los Angeles, CA

Within the Ace hotel in downtown Los Angeles, this bar & brasserie also supplies what has to be the ultimate in-room amenity: bottled cocktails, including gin and vodka martinis. Beverage director Dan Sabo makes a classic dirty vodka martini (though gin is available as well) with molecular mixology-driven ingredients like olive oil-infused dry vermouth and “clarified olive brine,” plus fino sherry and additional droplets of olive oil for silky mouthfeel. The goal is to update popular cocktails from the late 1970s and early 1980s, a much-maligned period for cocktails. The finishing touch: a ramekin of vermouth-infused olives sprinkled with coarse Maldon sea salt, to garnish or nibble as the guest desires. Add 2½ oz. Grey Goose vodka (or Bombay Sapphire gin), ½ oz. olive-infused dry vermouth, ¼ oz. clarified olive brine, and 1 bar spoon Alvear fino sherry to a mixing glass. Add ice and stir until well-chilled. Strain into a chilled Nick & Nora glass. Float four drops of olive oil on the top.

The Mezzanine at L.A. Chapter 929 South Broadway
Los Angeles, CA 90015

BDK

BDK Restaurant & Bar, San Francisco, CA

Recently opened at the Hotel Monaco in San Franciso, bar manager Kevin Diedrich (formerly of Jasper's Corner Tap & Kitchen, Bourbon & Branch, PDT, Clover Club) oversees the bar. Drinks are named after the predominant flavor in the glass. The Apple, Diedrich’s take on the old-school Martinez, includes Calvados, an apple brandy made in Normandy, France, and Strega, an Italian herbal liqueur. The drink is accompanied by a sidecar for those looking for a little extra. In a mixing glass, stir together 1½ oz. Anchor Old Tom gin, ½ oz. Calvados, 1 oz. house sweet vermouth (1 part Cinzano Sweet and 1 part Punt e Mes), 4 dashes Strega liqueur, and 1 dash Angostura bitters with ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass, reserving extra in “sidecar” container.

BDK Restaurant & Bar 501 Geary St
San Francisco, CA 94102

The Up & Up, New York, NY

This new Greenwich Village bar felt old-school from the minute it opened. Maybe it’s because the space once housed the Gaslight Café, a Beat haunt that inspired Bob Dylan to write “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” But it’s old-school with modern mixology trappings, which may explain their new/old martini riff, the Carlson martini. The Up & Up revels in experimenting with unusual drink formats, from pint-sized “halfies” to large-format bottled cocktails. This martini is pre-batched and chilled, ready to serve groups of three (half bottle) to six (full bottle). It’s served just like a bottle of wine: presented in a wine bottle, set on ice in a bucket, and poured by a server at the table. The drink recipe itself is credited to Laura Carlson, currently a bartender at The John Dory Oyster Bar.

“It's basically a variation on an Astoria Bianco,” explains head bartender Chaim Dauermann, “which is a variation of an Astoria, which is in itself a variation of a martini.” The cocktail features St. George’s pine-y Terroir Gin, softened and sweetened by Dolin Blanc vermouth. Water is added to the bottle to mimic the dilution that stirring with ice ordinarily would provide.

“The result is a very balanced martini that is appealing for all palates,” Dauermann says. “Given how particular consumers can be about martinis, we have been very pleased with how well this recipe has played with all of our guests!” Stir together 12 oz. St. George Terroir gin, 6 oz. Dolin Blanc Vermouth, 6 oz. water, and ⅜ oz. Regan's Orange Bitters. Decant into an empty wine bottle and chill for several hours before serving. Serve in a chilled glass with a lemon peel as a garnish.

The Up & Up 116 MacDougal St
New York, NY 10012

Julie Soefer

1. Saigon Pagolac

This classic Vietnamese place is hard to find, but it's worth it. Try the beef seven ways and the whole catfish. In a city where there is a large population of Vietnamese, these guys never seem to dissapoint.

Saigon Pagolac
9600 Bellaire Blvd
Houston, TX
(713) 988-6106

2. Asia Market

At Asia Market, you'll be served up some of the best Thai food in the city by some of the nicest people you'll ever meet. You pull up to this little grocery store, grab a table, sit back and relax. I order the papaya salad, kee mao noodle, and whatever else they recommend.

Asia Market
1010 W Cavalcade Street
Houston, TX
(713) 863-7074

3. Atkinson Farms

Now open to the public seven days a week, Atkinson is our largest supplier of local vegetables. You can visit them in Spring, Texas or at any one of our local farmers' markets.

Atkinson Farms
3217 Spring Cypress Road
Houston, TX
(832) 381-8202

Julie Soefer

4. Anvil Bar & Refuge

Anvil Bar serves up amazing, innovative cocktails. I never order off the menu, I just ask them to make me something and I've never been disappointed.

Anvil Bar & Refuge
1424 Westheimer Road
Houston, TX
(713) 523-1622

5. Cali Sandwich

This place is what all other sandwich shops strive to be—perfect. They’ve been rocking banh mi sandwiches since the ‘80s. Order the cha gio (Vietnamese egg rolls), and don’t forget to add a fried egg to your banh mi.

Cali Sandwich
3030 Travis
Houston, TX 77006

6. El Hidalguense

One of the truly authentic Mexican restaurants in Houston. Visit on the weekend, and try their slow roasted goat and lamb barbacoa.

El Hidalguense
6917 Long Point Road
Houston, TX
(713) 680-1071

7. Mala Sichuan

Mala Sichuan is owned by an amazing young couple, doing amazing things by staying true to their style of cuisine. Try the red oil dumplings or the mapo tofu.

Mala Sichuan
9348 Belliare Blvd; 1201 Westheimer
Houston, TX
(713) 995-1889

8. HK Dim Sum

This family-owned place is always packed. They have classic, fresh dim sum, but don't expect cart service. Try the steamed shrimp dumplings and the pork ribs.

HK Dim Sum
9889 Bellaire Blvd
Houston, TX
(713) 777-7029

9. Pho Binh by Night

Bone marrow pho. Enough said.

Pho Binh by Night
12148 Bellaire Blvd #101
Houston, TX
(832) 351-2464

Julie Soefer

10. Revival Market

These guys set the bar when it comes to cooking sustainably with local ingredients. They have amazing meats (they raise their own pigs) and are all around good guys—ask for Morgan or Ryan.

Revival Market
550 Heights Blvd
Houston, TX
(713) 880-8463

11. London Sizzler

London Sizzler has the best Indian food in the city and is run by some of the nicest people—my adopted Indian family, the Patels. Just go in and tell them to order what Chris gets.

London Sizzler
6690 Southwest Freeway
Houston, TX
(713) 783-2754

12. Crawfish and Noodles

A true measure of what Houston is all about—cultures blending. Take a Southern crawfish boil and blend it with Vietnamese flavor. Add stir-fried blue crabs and braised turkey necks, and you have one hell of a meal.

Crawfish and Noodles
11360 Bellaire Blvd. #990
Houston, TX 77072 (281) 988-8098

Chris Shepherd is the award-winning chef and owner of Underbelly, featuring locally-sourced food inspired by the ethnic diversity of Houston. The Art Institute-alum won the 2014 James Beard Award for Best Chef: Southwest and was named one of 2013's Top 10 Best New Chefs in America by Food & Wine. In his free time, Chris cheers on his beloved Houston Texans, seeks out hard-to-find bottles for his ever-growing bourbon collection, and explores the city for new restaurants.

In the winter of 2015, writer and frequent traveler Caro Clark left Seattle to drive across country and, maybe, put down roots somewhere out east. Here, she's sharing a bit of her story.

Caro Clark

Seven hours and 383 miles ago I had woken up at a friend’s house in Portland, Oregon. My car had been packed and ready to go for days, but my trip kept getting delayed: happy hours, a fancy olive oil store I visited for the free bread, and a place that made salt-flavored ice cream all helped me put off my departure. The morning I finally started driving, I had no real destination. I played an album of Polish Bob Dylan covers. This is the music I listen to when I’m sad. It was also the only CD I could find.

For lunch I stopped at a gas station. Past the aisles of junk food and coolers of soda there was a little kitchen with a table and chairs, a secret domestic oasis. Potted plants, the same scratched, white fridge from my childhood, yellow linoleum counters. A woman in a daisy patterned apron was making sandwiches. She held up her hands when she saw me, fingers like prunes, and told me she’d been washing dishes all day. I almost mistook myself for someone she knew. When she asked me why I was on this road trip I told her I was moving to North Carolina, though that wasn’t entirely true. Mostly I was just moving. I did not tell her that I’d been traveling for almost three years, that I didn’t know where I belonged anymore. I did not tell her that when I tried moving back to Seattle I had felt lonely and misplaced. I did ask for hot sauce.

She handed me my turkey sandwich, bound in saran wrap. Good luck on your drive, she said. Be safe. I had hoped she would invite me to camp on her lawn, in one of the doublewides or shoebox ranches lining the small town, to fall asleep watching the television glow cast through the glass mobiles hanging in every front door. But I was too shy to ask and so I sat in the parking lot and ate in the shade of a fern. No one tried to stop me when I got in the car. Everyone I drove past waved me on out of town.

Caro Clark

At the campsite I drank a couple more beers, hoping to tire myself out. I looked up at the sky with forced interest. It was speckled so brightly that the Milky Way looked to be spread with a butter knife. An owl cooed in the dark. Then came a shooting star. I was too cold to appreciate any of it and went to bed. Hours later, I woke to the shrill sound of a fox barking, could smell the citrus on my knife as I reached for it. I shivered back to sleep.

In the morning I broke down camp and hiked to the water before setting off again. The trail to the beach was marked with tsunami warnings. A rabbit watched me approach. Hello, I called out to it, surprising myself with my own voice. As if twenty-four hours alone was all it took to commune with animals like I was a hungover Snow White. It was gone before I reached the word’s breathy end.

Caro Clark

Driving was a wistful pleasure already described by too many rock songs. I became attuned to the designs of small-town gas stations, wandering past coolers with milk and sodas and aisles of chips, instant pastas and jerky, all the trappings of a bachelor’s dinner. I paid attendants who had cavernous lines on their faces, as if they’d suffered bad weather somewhere deep inside.

I passed through Napa, Davis, Oakland. Somewhere back on the coast, I was chased out of a campground by a very angry, very naked man. In Santa Cruz I woke to my first earthquake. Earlier that day I watched a herd of surfers navigate the waves. They had seemed so at ease with their surroundings; I’d felt both envious and foolish watching from the side of the road.

Caro Clark

In Big Sur, Route 1 snaked the hills and dips and cliffs, begging more than my usual dexterity. The fog gave way to an azure sky, folds of hills, and and then occasionally drifted back over the road, a curtain in an open window. When a rock the size of a cocker spaniel fell behind me, I could see the splash of its debris in my rearview as it bounced heavily off the road. Still, there was nothing I could do, no number of pullovers, roadside root beers, close calls, or dangerous turns, no singing out the window that could leave me feeling like I had any sort of permanence within that place. This, I began to realize, was not going to change anytime soon.

I stood before cliffs, and coves, and cows. I found an empty beach and went to investigate a large piece of washed up detritus. It turned out to be an elephant seal who growled at me as I backed away towards my car. I stopped again and again and again, and just as many times, I left.

Caro Clark

By the time I got to Venice Beach the psychics had already boarded their doors shut. No crowds gathered around street performers, and only one unicyclist wheeled slowly by with a dreary, apocalyptic squeak. I wandered over to the Venice Skatepark. I had come to this particular spot my whole life, walking distance from my uncle’s house in Santa Monica. I recognized a gnome tattoo and one gap-toothed grin. I had watched some of these kids—now no longer kids—grow up, but I doubt they could distinguish me from the tourists. I was playing anthropologist, observing people who seemed to better understand their place in the world.

I settled against a rail and put my face in my hands, listening to the cry of the grind, the scrape of each mistake. The crunch and thud and piercing squeal of a board, the hollow rolling as it drifted from its owner before being snatched up again. When I finally opened my eyes, it was to the nearly clandestine thrum of wheels still spinning as a skater flew through the air, impossibly high and briefly safe, shadows secreted away by the low sun. I had spent three weeks in California. It was time to go east.

I’m the drifter? He laughed. Look at you, sweetheart.

Even more remarkable than the two California Condors I spotted in the Grand Canyon: I found my dad at the Phoenix airport, his white mustache concealing a smile. He had surprised me by asking to come along for a week of my trip. As we drove, we discussed at length where to eat and stay, each assuring the other that anything was fine. It’s up to you, kid, he said. I’m just along for the ride.

I was flattered someone thought I had any clue about what I was doing.

At the dusty Arizona–Mexico border a waitress asked if we were related. I said he was a drifter I picked up off the highway. He looked the part: Beer in hand, the naked legs of a woman peeking from below the sleeve of his Harley t-shirt. When I was little I used to fill them in with red marker so it looked like she was wearing pants. Now, my own bare legs stretched under the table, my own tattoos already starting to blur.

I’m the drifter? He laughed. Look at you, sweetheart.

Like me, my dad prefers convenience stores to restaurants. The southwest was a haven of derelict markets and gas station barbecue. The roads were as flat and straight as I’d been warned. I ignored him when he noted my speed. It’s a small engine, he said. What are you thinking? He meant it as a criticism but it sounded like a question. I am so confused about everything, I wanted to tell him. But cars are a scary place for those conversations. You’re always staring straight out into the fast-approaching future.

Caro Clark

When we got to the White Sands National Monument in New Mexico the sky was the stormy color of the Atlantic and the dunes were without shadow. My dad and I had bickered in the car all afternoon. I walked off, leaving him at the edge of the road. I only went a little ways, but when I turned around I couldn’t see him or the car. Distance contracted and expanded in a way that made me feel immediately lost and unable to make progress. When I touched it, the sand was as fine as dust.

My dad had grown up abroad, traveled the world, worked at sea. As a kid I’d idolized him, wore oversized motorcycle shirts and drew myself incoherent tattoos depicting, I claimed, Roger Rabbit. I’d followed in his footsteps, and now, after years of being single and far from home, I wasn’t sure what I actually wanted. He had given that life up to have a family; I had left Seattle to find a different place to settle down. Being with him, edging towards the familiar, began to conjure in me a throat-thick fear.

Caro Clark

We drove on to Marfa, Texas, where we met a woman named Bridget who invited us to spend the night at her house. She was thin, much taller than both of us. Her cats multiplied until there were at least five. I picked up one of the boar skulls in her living room, and my dad whispered to me that she might be some sort of priestess.

Before we left she told me that she hoped I’d find happiness in North Carolina. It left me rattled, that my malaise was so obvious. Ten minutes in the car and I drove through a stop sign. My dad swore, making me pull over and sit in the passenger seat. Pay attention, he told me. Do I have to worry about you after I go? I shook my head, no. I didn’t need his worry. I worried about myself all the time. I worried from Seattle down to LA, and I worried us right on into the Nashville airport. My mind was never quiet.

Caro Clark

After dropping him off, I spent a few days in Nashville before driving to the place I hoped I’d want to make my home. Asheville was warm and beautiful. The horizon bristled with the dulled peaks of America’s oldest mountains. I was welcomed by dear friends who made me fancy bourbon cocktails and took me to play competitive scrabble and drunk ping-pong. I sat by railroad tracks. Walked rivers. I felt understood. They even took me to a gas station that had beer on tap.

Still, I hoped for some larger sign that I was ready to settle there. There was no giantess to prophesize the answer. No earthquake to shake me awake. I wondered if I’d missed something along the way, if I should have quit driving weeks ago.

Are you going to stay? my friends asked. After a week, I got back on the road.

Caro Clark is a writer currently living in Alaska.

Diane Selkirk

Just as I settled into my second class seat (more seat padding than third class but not air-conditioned like first), we pulled out of the station. I watched the station café disappear, worried that I’d spend the entire trip hungry.

Diane Selkirk

Luckily, each town we stopped in brought aboard new vendors selling a variety of inexpensive snacks known throughout the country as short eats. At each station, a new cast of vendors would step aboard, walking the length of the train calling the name of their offerings in a loud, sing-song voice. Each leg of our journey meant a new snack.

As we wound our way down from the high country, a man selling masala vadai—curried lentil fritters—boarded the train. The crispy snacks were served, still warm, in an envelope made from recycled newspaper, with flecks of curry leaf, chilies, and cilantro peppered throughout.

Lush green rice country brought on the string hopper salesmen. Their lacy flat cakes are made from rice flour noodles, tangled together and steamed, then served with a spicy coconut sambal. They are delicate but messy. I ate them eagerly, watching workers in the paddies hand-harvest rice as our train passed them by.

Coconut roti came onboard while our train slowed down to travel between two stops at opposite ends of the same village. The fragrant flatbread, made from wheat flour and fresh-grated coconut, was spread with a fiery chili paste. It was the size of a large cookie, with a similar ability to make me smile. Out the window, I glimpsed moments of life in the town: orange-robed monks walking to temple, a fruit vendor selling watermelon, bicyclists lined up at the train tracks, waiting us to move along.

We pulled into Anuradhapura exactly on time: noon. Just in time for lunch.

Diane Selkirk is a writer whose work has appeared in National Geographic Travel, Men's Journal and Saturday Evening Post. She's currently sailing around the world but loves trains almost as much as boats.

Breakfast at Namli Gurme

Kristy Mucci

The tables are generally so packed that finding a seat might require an eagle eye or a willingness to eat outside on a not-so-nice day, but once you’re seated, it’s easy to enjoy yourself. I ordered a traditional breakfast, plus eggs: The mild cheeses, cured meats, and olives were served with fluffy bread and an addictive sour cherry jam—not too sweet, with the occasional tart punch of a whole cherry. The eggs had bright orange yolks and were served in a small dish I wanted to take home with me. Turkish tea is what it is (bitter, weak), but it’s served in cute glasses that somehow make it so much better. And if you are seated outside, the stray cats will spend the whole time flirting with you and eyeing what you might not finish. I had barely stood up all the way before this guy pounced on my leftovers.

Back inside, I wandered the store admiring the huge displays of olives, dried fruits and nuts, different kinds of honey, and a case full of baklava and various baklava-like treats, all of it nearly impossible to resist. I got myself one of every pistachio and honey pastry on offer, and a large bag of pistachios, which were by far the best I’ve ever had: slender with the most vibrant pink skins and the perfect amounts of crunch, sweetness, and salt. I followed up all of that excitement with a walk along the Bosphorus and through the streets of Karaköy, a lively neighborhood filled with restaurants, cafes, and the fanciest hammam: Kılıç Ali Paşa, a traditional Turkish bath dating back to the 16th century.

Istanbul is large, crowded, and loud: overstimulating in the best way. This breakfast was a great way to ease into it, to boost my enthusiasm and help me forget my jetlag. And the cats—both at Namli Gurme and throughout the neighborhood—were the perfect welcoming committee.

Namli Gurme Karakoy
Rıhtım Cad. Katotopark Altı 1/1, 34425 Karaköy
İstanbul, Turkey +90 212 293 6880

Mamey juice, seafood paella, and sweet plantains

Amanda Arnold

“Ah ha ha,” he chuckled to himself, his finger still pressed to the address on the screen. “Word.”

A street food market that attracts everyone from Ferran Adrià to Martha Stewart to 22-year-old Midwestern girls like myself, El Palacio de los Jugos translates to “The Palace of Juices,” but it’s more of a palace of every edible Latin good. Crowds of people squeeze through narrow aisles to get to one of the food stands, calling out in Spanish and pointing to fatty chicharrones, mounds of pea-flecked arroz amarillo, or ropa vieja. In the middle of it all, a man with a shopping cart full of green coconuts hacks off their tops with precision, inserts a straw into the cavity, and passes them off to customers. It’s a spectacle, but no one cheers.

Upon arriving, I wandered for half an hour, and I still felt like I hadn’t seen it all. It’s not a big area, but food stands with piles of fruit and stacks of dulce de leche are all packed together; it’s overwhelming, but I liked that. I was surrounded by foods I didn’t recognize and a language I don’t speak, so I could do nothing but follow my instincts.

Miami's El Palacio de los Jugos

Amanda Arnold

And after spending much time deliberating what food I wanted, at the Pescado y Mariscos stand, I ordered seafood paella and plátanos—hello, starches—and the woman behind the counter piled scoop after scoop into a styrofoam box, which bent under the weight. I paid $8 for enough food to last me the next three days.

As I dug into the paella, my fork hit various concealed bits of seafood: clams, shrimp, half a whole fish, squid. The experience was reminiscent of digging through a sandbox and finding a shovel, except the shovel was a pink filet of salmon.

El Palacio de los Jugos
5721 W Flagler St., Miami (plus seven other locations)
(305) 262-0070

My favorite part of the four months that I spent living in Paris, France, in 2011 was the three-hour painting class I took every Thursday in the residential 15th Arrondissement. It was the event around which I oriented my week—the one thing I wouldn’t skip out on. My excitement had very little to do with the act of painting.

Our class of 12 was divided into two very distinct camps: French people, mostly middle-aged men, who knew their way around a paintbrush; and the five or six American students who were taking this class for a taste of “culture.” The class officially began at 7 p.m., but everyone would saunter in around 7:10, and then the model would disrobe and take her place on a stool draped in dripcloth.

Though I’d taken drawing classes with nude models before and was living in a country where bikini tops are optional on beaches, I still had to feign nonchalance to the model’s initial nakedness. I mirrored the reactions of the French students around me and squinted my eyes, trying to judge curves and shadows and not focus on the fact of nakedness. The concrete room would fill with the sound of pencils scratching on paper.

It’s hard to be timid about your grammar slip-ups when you’re sharing your third glass of wine with the very woman whose nipples you were just painting.

Around 8 o’clock we would break for une pause. The model would throw on a robe, palettes and paint tubes would be cleared, and we would congregate around a cluster of ink-stained side tables. A baguette would appear; then, a thick slice of pâté, marbled with fat and aspic. An oily wedge of comté would immediately overpower the lingering smell of turpentine. Then came one—no, two—no, three—bottles of wine. All red, of course, since it was fall in Paris and already quite chilly. One of the more hardened-looking men always had a bottle opener on him and would pop the cork before we even began setting out the little water cooler plastic cups we used in place of wine glasses.

Our art class picnic was sourced, by and large, from spots within walking distance of the studio. We hit up chain supermarkets and corner boulangeries, closet-sized meat and cheese shops run by often-toothless proprietors and their yippy dogs. We bought our wine at corner stores reminiscent of American bodegas, and it was still damn good.

There was never any coordination about who brought which food, so occasionally we’d find ourselves with eight bottles of wine and only a baguette to absorb them with, or the opposite: four types of odorous cheese and barely enough wine to muster a classwide “santé!” But the lack of structure brought excitement to the reveal: What would we be eating tonight? Plus, we could always duck out for a bottle of wine or a jar of olives.

Unlike the meals I ate with my French host family, there were no salad plates here, no individual containers of yogurt for dessert, no rules about what to eat first. Our feasts were a delicate dance between gluttony and propriety: no one sipped their wine until everyone had been served, but they dug into containers of olives with ink-stained fingers and not an ounce of hesitation. We tore into baguettes with our hands, then used it to scoop up tapenades, swaddle our slices of salami, and wipe our fingers clean when we were done. In the end, there were always a few butter cookies or a bar of midnight-colored chocolate.

During this break, the Parisians made no effort to practice their language with us. The locals didn’t ask us about our classes or how we were adjusting to life in a foreign country. Instead, they asked us if we’d ever tasted real pâté—like they make in the countryside outside of Paris—and showed us the mark of a high-quality baguette (press down: if you hear a crackle, it’s a keeper). During the pause, we dared to use the subjunctive and try out idioms, those feats that had always tripped us up in language classes. It’s hard to be timid about your grammar slip-ups when you’re sharing your third glass of wine with the very woman whose nipples you were just painting.

After the last baguette was gone, we would wander in a circle from easel to easel scoping out each others' work and giving critiques. We’d return to our stools and attempt to reposition the model in her previous pose, a feat which took far longer than necessary (most likely due to the wine). After the break, we were all a bit bolder with our paint strokes, more daring with our color choices.

I think I kept one or two of my paintings from the class, but these days I’m more likely to spring for a wedge of comté or use a baguette as an all-purpose utensil than pull out a paint brush. That class mostly taught me that any place, any time, can be ripe for a picnic. And that a bottle of red is a great way to bond with a nude french woman.

Catherine Lamb is a baker, writer, and part-time blueberry farmer with a penchant for large dogs.

Hallie Bateman

Restaurant patios line the back wall of the square, all with their own busker in front; we choose the only one with a table open. This is where Cortés, with the ghosts of an empire dripping from his hands, tortured Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec emperor. The square now all laughter and accordions, knock-off Minions and Bart Simpsons, we order beer and tequila. We order guacamole, too, but con chapulines throws us off, and the waiter, pinching his fingers together and struggling, can’t seem to find the word either. We decide to try it regardless.

He returns and sets a small white bowl down. Ah. Chapulines.

“¿Cómo se dice?” he asks.

“Crickets.”

They look like tiny grasshoppers. They’ve been toasted to a dry crisp, salted and limed, like a sunflower seed with a face. You’ll see them on barrio streets piled into soft, coppery pyramids, sold by the cupful. I hold one up by its brittle back leg and examine it, how frozen it seems, suspended in a faraway time like the people of Aztlán, like my own Mexican heritage hanging thin and fading in some familial echo.

And we crunch them and dip them and wash them down with the cold beer, their bronzed bodies like dead royalty waiting in the sunlit bowl. Their taste is all subtle hints: ajo, lima, spikes of salt. I am astounded by the facts: we are in Mexico City, we are eating crickets, we are beaming. I am an arm reaching back through generations, I see my grandmother’s hands in my hands, I am staked into an exploding history. Which likely means nothing, I think, while a guitar creaks, while my amber beer beads, while the young plaza girls try to shake pesos from our trees.

Alan Hanson is a writer from California and an amateur entomophagist. You can find him on Twitter here.

There’s a new dynamism in the Twin Cities culinary scene, thanks to a deeply food-engaged populace supporting not only restaurants, cocktail bars, and taphouses, but a dozen independent food cooperatives (supermarkets with a focus on organic and local produce). Our feature in the June/July issue of Saveur visits four Minneapolis chefs in their kitchens and comes away with some kick-ass new recipes for summer. In the course of reporting the story, we visited many more restaurants, salumi makers, bakers, and food trucks than we had room in the story for. So we've put together this list of some our favorite finds.

Surdyk's Liquor and Cheese

Courtesy of Surdyk's Liquor and Cheese

Bachelor Farmer
In this warm, post-and-beam former warehouse, James Beard Award-winning chef Paul Berglund fashions boldly flavored food from north country ingredients. Your roasted celeriac soup with toasted walnuts and lemon might be served in a clay bowl thrown by Berglund—an amateur potter—himself.

Bachelor Farmer
50 2nd Avenue N
(612) 206-3920

Octopus at Borough

Courtesy of Borough

Borough
Drew Yancey serves globe-trotting plates like raw tuna with miso, pineapple, sesame, and lime at this chefs' hangout in the North Loop. And barkeep Jesse Held, a seasoned veteran of the Minneapolis mixology scene, shakes cocktails for adventurous sippers, viz. the Awkward Silence, made with bourbon, peach-pit liqueur, yerba mate honey, artichoke liqueur, and “salt solution.”

Borough
730 N. Washington Avenue
(612) 354-3135

Burgers at The Curious Goat

TJ Turner

Curious Goat
Torqued-up comforts with refined technique (think purple potatoes with sunchoke cream or a meatloaf sandwich with onion jam and gravy) are this food truck’s calling card. And you don’t have to hunt far and wide for this mobile operation because it’s in residence semi-permanently at Sociable Cider Werks.

Curious Goat
1500 Fillmore Street NE
(612) 229-2364

Haute Dish
As you might have guessed by the name, Landon Schoenefeld’s restaurant serves Midwestern food with modern, cheffy flourishes. His upmarket riff on the Midwestern staple “hot dish” casserole includes beef short rib, porcini mushrooms, and of course, tater tots—and has become a Twin Cities icon.

Haute Dish
119 Washington Avenue N
(612) 338-8484

Heyday
Dominated by a freewheeling open kitchen and a few barns’ worth of reclaimed wood, Jim Christiansen’s vegetable-focused restaurant offers cooking with a lightness and purity, shown in dishes like a warm appetizer of a fried egg over chanterelles, quick-pickled blackberries, green garlic, and toasted hazelnuts. The claytonia, morels, and spring onions that Christiansen finds in Theodore Wirth Park make regular appearances on plates here.

Heyday
2700 Lyndale Avenue S
(612) 200-9369

La Belle Vie
The grand dame of Minneapolis fine dining has a new chef de cuisine in Shane Oporto. The jury’s still out on how the menu of French-inflected refinements that won executive chef Tim McKee a James Beard Award for Best Chef Midwest in 2009 will get tweaked, if at all. In the meantime, the bar here—widely credited with igniting the craft cocktail scene in the city—is superb for popping in for an aperitif before a night on the town.

La Belle Vie
510 Groveland Avenue
(612) 874-6440

Kramarczuk’s
Since 1954, this warm, inviting meat market and restaurant has been delivering the old-world flavors of eastern Europe, primarily in the form of sausages and more sausages: Every style of mett, brat, and wurst is available here.

Kramarczuk’s
215 E Hennepin Avenue
(612) 379-3018

The Marvel Bar's "alkaline trio"

Charlie Ward

Marvel Bar
This industrial-posh speakeasy underneath Bachelor Farmer has the city’s most extensive selection of spirits from Minnesota distilleries and some of its best cocktails, too. The house style is a restrained refinement—no seaweed tinctures here!—that is nevertheless sly and winning.

Marvel Bar
50 2nd Avenue N
(612) 206-3929

Piccolo
Doug Flicker is the Obi Wan Kenobi of the Minneapolis dining scene and his tiny, 36-seat jewel box spot in South Minneapolis is a must on any food-lover’s tour. His dishes marry craveable comfort with tweezer-prodded artistry, like braised salsify with smoked oysters, hen of the woods mushrooms, horseradish, and cress. And don’t miss his signature scrambled eggs with pickled pigs' feet and truffle butter.

Piccolo
4300 Bryant Avenue S
(612) 827-8111

Red Table Meat Co.
Heirloom pigs, transformed into traditional Italian-style salumi and whole-muscle cures, are the specialty of this year-old salumeria, run by ace chefs Mike Phillips and Peter Ireland. Their gleaming Willy Wonka-esque facility has a USDA inspector onsite and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that reveal to visitors every step of the process, from butchering, to production, to curing, to aging.

Red Table Meat Co.
1401 Marshall Street NE
(612) 200-8245

Salty tarts at Salty Tart

Emily J. Davis

Salty Tart
In a city with a brace of top-notch bakeries (Patisserie 46, Rustica), Michelle Gayer’s spot—a kiosk tucked into the Midtown Global Market—focuses on decadent, delicious confections you’d expect from a James Beard-nominated pastry chef, like a chocolate trifle with moist chocolate cake, silky chocolate mousse, and toasty caramel served in a half-pint deli container. Grab a plastic spoon and dig in!

Salty Tart
920 E Lake Street
(612) 874-9206

Spoon and Stable
In a sun-splashed lofty former stable, Minnesota native Gavin Kaysen—whose previous gig was seven years helming New York’s Café Boulud—turns out elegant seasonal cuisine, like wood-grilled duck with black rice, beets, and honey, with the highest-quality Midwestern ingredients.

Spoon and Stable
211 1st Street N
(612) 224-9850

Surdyk's Liquor and Cheese

Courtesy of Surdyk's Liquor and Cheese

Surdyk’s Liquor and Cheese
A sprawling market—really two markets in one—is a one-stop shop for Twin-Cities-made provisions, like Red Table Meat Co. salamis, cocktail bitters by Dashfire, and B.T. McElrath’s award-winning Salty Dog Chocolate Bars.

Surdyk’s Liquor and Cheese
303 E Hennepin Avenue
(612) 379-3232

Tilia
This ur-neighborhood restaurant seems like it’s been there since Betty Crocker’s heyday. It's a warm taproom (featuring 21 tightly curated draft beers) with creaky hardwood floors, glowing schoolhouse lanterns, and chipped Thonet chairs. Chef Steven Brown isn’t afraid to elevate well-sourced Minneapolis lake fish and vegetables with global flourishes like dukka spices and ras el hanout.

Tilia
2726 W 43rd Street
(612) 354-2806

New and on-the-horizon:

Brut
Erik Anderson returned to Minneapolis from Nashville’s lauded The Catbird Seat, and teamed up with Jamie Malone, former executive chef of Twin Cities seafood temple Sea Change, to create Brut, a classic French restaurant slated for a fall opening. Their pop-ups have been setting Instagram ablaze. Stay up-to-date with developments and opening date on Twitter.

Nighthawks and Birdie
Landon Schoenefeld first made a name for himself with Haute Dish (see above). Nighthawks, named for the Edward Hopper painting, is his postmodern diner; Birdie, opening later this summer, will be a tasting-menu-only restaurant-within-a-restaurant located in Nighthawk’s kitchen.

Nighthawks
3753 Nicollet Avenue S
(612) 248 8111

Patisserie 46
Much-laureled pastry chef John Kraus crafts all the soigné French patisseries—mille-feuilles, eclairs, macarons—at this laid-back neighborhood café and bakery. But Kraus’ kouign-amann twist, his foot-long take on the classic Breton delectable, is a must. There are also killer tartines and crêpes.

Patisserie 46
4552 Grand Ave S
(612) 354-3257

Revival
North Carolina-bred Thomas Boemer won over the Twin Cities with his cooking at Corner Table, a genial neighborhood bistro with deft Italian-ish fare and seasonal Midwestern ethics. His newly-opened spot Revival pays homage to the southern dishes he grew up with, such as fried chicken and pork barbecue with chopped slaw.

Revival
4257 Nicollet Avenue S (612) 345-4516

Cookbook authors Matt Lee and Ted Lee are the hosts of the TV series "Southern Uncovered with The Lee Bros.” which premieres on Ovation June 14, 2015.

Sara Deseran

Neal Fraser's grilled octopus salad

The festival, produced by Donnie Masterton and Angela Lewis Serrano, was a testament to the fantastic food being cooked up in SMA. Next to local restaurants such as Aguamiel and Aperi and patisseries such as Cumpanio, SMA was treated to the food cooked by an international group: Neil Fraser of LA's Redbird served one of his signature salads made up of tender and smoky charred grilled octopus, chickpeas, cherry tomatoes, and an anchovy vinaigrette. Across the crowded tent, London-based Lily Vanilli, representing her eponymous bakery, sold gorgeous pear cakes with chile, ginger, and chamomile syrup with candied spiced pepitas. Carlo Mirarchi of Roberta’s in Brooklyn was there too, slinging suckling pig.

At our own table, SMA-based gordita maker Rosa, who brought her own bowl of blue-corn masa, patiently patted out one gordita after another on a comal that emanated a wave of heat to match the hot SMA summer sun. After cooking each gordita on the griddle, she sliced them open and stuffed them with our signature Tacolicious guisado, a braised guajillo-braised short rib. Nearby, Donnie put lamb on a spit (shawarma was the original inspiration for tacos al pastor, after all) and carved it off into handmade flour tortillas with a dollop of yogurt and chile sauce—a glorious culmination of Mexican and the Mediterranean. Inhaling it, all I could think is thank god cuisine is a shape-shifter.

Sara Deseran

Flags line the cobblestone streets leading to the festival.

See the recipe for Grilled Octopus with Chickpeas, Cherry Tomatoes, and Anchovy Vinaigrette »

St. John Bread and Wine

Stefan Johnson

She may originally hail from Ireland, but Diana Henry, cookbook author and columnist at the Sunday Telegraph, has lived in London long enough to earn the status of a local. So we asked her to share her favorite neighborhood restaurants across the city, those places that may not be the flashiest but have a loyal local following, reliable food, and kind service. Because when you're traveling, sometimes that's all you want.

It can be difficult to get a handle on a city’s food. Guidebooks and blogs often lead you to fine dining restaurants and the latest hip opening; you’ll be encouraged to visit the temple of a big-name chef and a "must-go-now" joint that hasn't yet hit its stride (or is simply overhyped). You’ll often queue for an hour before getting a drafty table by the door. What I want to find in a city are the restaurants where people who love good food—but don’t want to spend a fortune—go, the places that tell me something about that city, that give me a broad view of what is going on.

In the 30 years that I've been living in London, I've found my own favorite neighborhood restaurants, the places where I want to bring my visiting friends not because they're the hot new thing, but because they are comfortable and the food is good. These restaurants are all about the food, not the décor—and if you go you’ll eat with Londoners (for the most part) rather than visitors. You’ll see that fermentation is big here; that we like old-fashioned British food, as long as it’s done well; that pubs are a great place to eat out (if you know the good ones); and that we’re still in love with rough and ready Mediterranean fare. You won’t find a cheffy smear on your plate or an expense account diner in any of them. This is the best of laid-back dining in London, the places we locals go on a Friday night.

Brawn

John Carey

Brawn
49 Columbia Road
London E2 7RG
020 7729 5692

10 Greek Street

10 Greek Street
10 Greek Street
London W1
020 7734 4677

St. John Bread and Wine

Stefan Johnson

St. John Bread & Wine
94-96 Commercial Street
London E1 6LZ
O20 7251 0848

Shortrib Bourguignon, The Smokehouse

The Smokehouse
63-69 Canonbury Road
London N1 2DG
020 7354 1144

Raw Duck

Joe Woodhouse

Raw Duck
197 Richmond Road
London E8 3NJ
020 8986 6534

Diana Henry is an award-winning food writer and broadcaster based in London and a James Beard nominee. She is one of most loved and respected voices in food in the UK and the author of nine books. She has been a food columnist on The Daily Telegraph for over 12 years. Born and brought up in Ireland, she studied English Literature at Oxford University and was a television producer at BBC Television for many years before she started writing about food.