Only a handful of dishes are obviously Filipino: lumpia, of course, and pancit canton, which the menu calls “stir-fried chicken noodles.” The rest of the offerings chart a freewheeling course across Europe and Asia, from Russian beef stroganoff to Thai curry. The pancit comes with triangles of white bread, but it’s as good as any you’ll find in a neighborhood fiesta, thrumming with patis and lime. Even the stroganoff carries a garlicky warmth that recalls lola’s kitchen more than babushka's.

Josefina Magallanes’ food stand is a fixture outside Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Midtown Sacramento on Sundays. As her menu advertises, she specializes in homemade tamales, but her accompaniments range from drinks to dessert. In the winter she ladles out hot champurrado, a corn-based chocolate drink that thickens to a pudding when it cools. Come summer, she switches it out for fresh juices: red hibiscus, green chia seed, amber melon. Coolers and boxes of single-serve chip bags surround her table, and when she sits in her low-slung lawn chair, she nearly disappears behind them.

Spring has come to Reykjavík, and with it spring breakers: a seasonal phenomenon as invasive as lupine and ineluctable as allergies. When I came here on my own university holiday, I planned to follow the Iceland-lite itinerary that most of us spring breakers stick to: Blue Lagoon, Golden Circle tour, somehow getting drunk enough on overpriced beers to regurgitate them onto your futuristic heated sidewalks. As so often happens on this island, however, nothing turned out as expected.

Summary document for the annual conference of the Global Food Safety Initiative, prepared on site in Tokyo.

Cru Chocolate’s packaging means its candy bars are well-suited for artistic display — their labels designed to evoke the Surrealist tradition of Central America, featuring motifs symbolizing their cacao’s country of origin: Guatemalan macaws, Haitian butterflies, Nicaraguan jaguars. They stand out even in the packed west wall of Andy’s Candy Apothecary, where craft chocolate bars are showcased, labels out, like paintings in a gallery.

A collection of recipes and vignettes collected on the field in Capiz, Philippines.

It takes its name from a mythical fairy king, ruler of the pagan pantheon. It was served at the great banquets of Romans conquerors. The first English settlers to America considered it so precious that they carried it on their long voyage across the ocean. And yet modern British gardeners are more likely to call it a weed and toss it in the rubbish heap than to serve it for supper. Such is the fate of Good King Henry.

From quinoa to goji berries, the global market is finally wising up to nutritious "superfoods" that traditional cultures have enjoyed for generations. We’ve just caught wind of a new product that’s sure to take the health world by storm: blue corn pinole. Indigenous Latin Americans have been drinking this blend of maize, spices, and other tasty tidbits as an energising beverage since the Aztec Empire.

Imagine a covered market packed full of sellers yelling this, their calls layered like a church choir, each straining to be louder the rest. Now imagine the sellers holding strips of crisp, fatty pork skin in their outstretched hands, imploring you to try just one succulent bite. Add in the rich, heady aroma of roasting pigs saturating the humid air and you’ve got an idea of the porcine sensory overload that hits you as soon as you walk into the lechon market in Carcar, Cebu.

(Print only) One-third of the world's total food supply goes to waste. It's an oft-repeated statistic, but it never loses its teeth. In visual terms, that's the equivalent of bringing home three shopping bags from the supermarket and immediately shoving one in the garbage can. Tossing out good food that you paid for strays far from any psychologist's concept of "rational behavior," and yet all of us ostensibly rational Americans do it every day. To find the root cause of food waste, we have to look deep into the psychology of the average American consumer and the cultural norms behind it.

The owners probably had coffee beans in mind when they named their shop, but they could just as well be referring to the syrupy-soft baked beans that every Englishman demands with his all day breakfast. Here, you can get your English breakfast in either “deluxe full” or “light” size, the latter of which is often recommended for female patrons. (As a female with a deluxe full appetite myself, I beg to differ with that recommendation.)