“You Filipinos may have invented chicken adobo,” says Chuck Miller, a.k.a. Daanaxh.ils’eikh, the cultural liaison of the Sitka Tribe, “but we Tlingit perfected it.”

An Iñupiat staple and its unexpectedly perfect Korean complement bring Alaska’s many cultures together on the plate.

The goddess Fermentia looms over The Better Meat Co.’s production facility in West Sacramento. In a digital painting that hangs above the entrance to the fermentation room, she resembles a shieldmaiden from Norse mythology — though dressed in a lab coat and sensible shoes. A supplication is printed below her sneakered feet: “Oh Fermentia, please protect us from contamination and bad data."

Rowena Bech still remembers the salmon factory. “It’s hard work,” she told me, when I visited her one-year-old Filipino buffet in Vágur, a sleepy village on the southernmost of the Faroe Islands.

There was a line outside Lucky Three Seven in Oakland this weekend, though not for the spicy-sweet G-Fire Wings or shatteringly crisp, fried-to-order lumpia that put the Filipino restaurant on the map after it opened in 2013. Instead, friends and family gathered to leave offerings of flowers, candles and twisted bicho-bicho doughnuts at a memorial for co-owner Artger “Jun” Anabo, who was shot outside the restaurant last week.

The Capital Region has long been a blended place, home to one of the country’s most ethnically diverse populations for decades. The region’s young restaurateurs are increasingly opening concepts that reflect the experience of living and eating in a diverse place, rather than hewing to an amber-glazed idea of authenticity.

On the counter of Marshall’s Pasties in Grass Valley, next to a few of the awards the 53-year-old shop has accumulated, there’s a blackened metal lunch pail. It doesn’t look like much against the stacks of plaques and framed certificates, but the pail is a direct connection to the mines that once powered this gold rush town.

In Capiz, I served the dalagang bukid simply, fried in the charcoal-fired “dirty kitchen” with a side of ensaladang ampalaya. I’ve had it rarely since; Caesio cuning is hard to find outside of her Southeast Asia, and I’ve spent the past five years traveling far afield. Yet I think of her often.

At Kehaulani’s Cafe in Vallejo, the loco moco starts with short ribs braised for 12 hours.

These young women are rewriting the definition of authenticity in "the best food city in Alaska."

In Utqiagvik, Alaska, the northernmost town in the United States, the Arctic Ocean forms a jagged crust of ice up to the gray sand beach. A few yards away from the beach, under polar night or midnight sun, sits a little Filipino restaurant called the 57.

In the months before the May opening of his Italian restaurant Mattone Ristorante in East Sacramento, June Chang fielded a lot of hopeful questions. Some neighbors approached him while he worked outside to ask if he would be reopening Español, the 97-year-old restaurant founded in a downtown Basque boarding house.

Since the Industrial Revolution, the myth of the American Dream has centered around cities. As the story goes, the most promising rural youth leave their hinterland homes to seek their fortunes in the metropolis, perhaps never to return.

The oldest Filipino restaurant in Iceland does not have a Filipino name. The sign outside says “Matstofan,” but locals will tell you the place is called “Dússabar,” after co-owner Dússi Grönfeldt. The only hint at a foreign presence is written in slim letters, barely visible from across the street: “Filipino taste.”

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

From outside the blocky building it shares with the local library, Safnahús Borgarfjarðar passes as the kind of low-tech local museum one finds in any small town around the world. You know the type—glass cabinets full of staid-faced porcelain dolls, phased-out farm tools, empty eggshells arranged by species—the dust-coated debris of obsolescence.

When the light is just right, one can see a resemblance between Sacramento and Amsterdam. Both cities are tree-lined and pancake-flat, with robust bicycle cultures and the infrastructure to match. Soon, there will be another Dutch detail in Sacramento: the sweet scent of stroopwafels — syrup-filled waffle cookies — wafting on the breeze. Follow that scent and you will find neither a brick-and-mortar bakery nor a food truck but a bakfiets, a front-loaded cargo bike that is as quintessentially Dutch as tulips and wooden clogs.

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.

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.