It’s not uncommon these days to see a city’s best local foods represented in its sports stadiums: Tony Luke’s iconic cheesesteak in Philly’s Citizens Bank Park, Shake Shack burgers in New York’s Citifield, peach cobbler in Atlanta’s Georgia Dome. But we were still pleasantly surprised with the offerings we saw this weekend at Marlins Park, the brand-new high-tech home of the Miami (née Florida) Marlins. Despite resembling a futuristic alien spacecraft, with its gleaming-white exterior and cool retractable roof, the stadium goes the extra mile to spotlight cuisine reflective of the multi-culti coastal city’s roots—and even those of the visiting team.

Along the perimeter of the stadium are some ballpark standards—hot dogs, pizza, popcorn, pretzels, nachos (served in a helmet!)—but you can also track down locally sourced shrimp burgers (Burger 305), grilled mahi-mahi tacos (Miami Mex), Cuban-style rice and beans (Goya Rincon Habana), and 100% kosher deli sandwiches (Kosher Korner). In what we can only hope will be a new ballpark trend, the food program here encompasses a “farm to fork” initiative, sourcing seafood and veggies locally when possible. But the real magic happens behind left field—and no, we don’t mean poolside among the dancers and DJs at the Clevelander, an outpost of the iconic South Beach club also in this part of the park. Around Section 28 is a little area called Taste of Miami featuring three city institutions—go there, and be hungry.

First stop: Papo Llega y Pon. Apparently this eatery was long an Allapattah hole-in-the-wall until some meat-loving Marlins employees got to it and introduced its signature pork sandwich to the baseball masses. The pan con lechon ($7) is a mess of chopped roast pig (tender pork shoulder and crunchy bits of skin), piled into a soft white roll with salt, onions, and hot sauce. We wanted more meat and less bread, particularly with that addictively crispy chicharron mixed in, but it was still delicious—and much more interesting than the (still tasty) Brother Jimmy’s pulled-pork sandwich on the stadium’s other side. Papo also sells tamales and chicharrones.

Next is Latin American Grill, an offshoot of the popular three-restaurant South Florida chain, here focusing its energies on Cuban sandwiches (and their kin, the medianoche). This place is a veritable assembly line of perfectly executed Cuban sandwiches—one after another, handmade in front of you, leaving no doubt they are as fresh as can be (see video at bottom). Hot off the press, served with crispy mariquitas, or plantain chips, this simple sandwich is a stadium highlight, despite the fact that ours alone lacked pickles—an unfortunate oversight for a $12 sandwich. Get a side of extra mariquitas ($6) to bring back to the stands; the garlic mojo sauce alone is worth the cost (pictured at top).  

Finally, there’s Don Camaron, for all your seafood needs. We settled on some comparatively light fish ceviche ($10), made with tilapia and including tomatoes, corn, red onion, and cilantro. The citrusy flavor was muy refreshing, and if we’d had any money left we would’ve gotten a few oysters on the half shell, too. This is the stand where you forget you’re at a ball park.

We hope that visitors to Miami make a beeline for these quintessential eats, but there’s something in it for Florida residents here, too—they can try a different local food every game from the visiting team’s city, as the Burger 305 stand in Section 19 serves a suitably regional dish depending on who’s in town: lobster rolls for the Red Sox, fried ravioli for the St. Louis Cardinals, cheesesteaks for the Phillies. For the Mets on Sunday there was supposed to be corned beef Reubens, which, in our quest for Cuban pork, we failed to notice. But we love the idea of welcoming opponents with a taste of their home, and celebrating regional dishes in the process. I have to admit I’d try the fried ravioli if the Cardinals had played this weekend…

Here's a peek into the making of those Cuban sandwiches:

Somewhere between waking up to peaceful lagoon views; swimming in a warm, empty sea before breakfast; and feasting on spicy pumpkin stew at lunch, I started to wonder: Why isn’t this place swarmed with tourists?

View of lagoon from bungalow, Tribewanted, John Obey beach

I could guess the answer—this was Sierra Leone, the tiny corner of West Africa best known for an ugly slavery history, a decade-long civil war (1991-2002), and the violent thriller Blood Diamond—but it still didn’t make sense. As I surveyed pristine John Obey beach, where Scott and I stayed our first few nights at eco-tourism venture Tribewanted, the word “paradise” easily sprung to mind.

John Obey beach, Tribewanted

Note to the National Tourist Board: If you’d like to make a good first impression on all future visitors to Sierra Leone, send them directly to Tribewanted. Created by Brit Ben Keene and Italian Filippo Bozotti in 2010, after Keene founded the concept on a Fijian island in 2006, the Sierra Leonean initiative takes the community-based tourism model—in which the community, a fishing village in this case, has a stake and sees real benefits—makes it sustainable (using solar power, organic gardens, compost toilets, bucket showers, local building materials, etc.) and throws in a cross-cultural twist: Why not have visitors and villagers live together, and learn from one another? Visitors have the option of volunteering any skill they have, or not: The founders also took care to select a village situated on a vacation-ready strip of spectacular coastline, backed by jungly hills.

Bucket shower, Tribewanted

 

Communal kitchen, Tribewanted

Our six days at Tribewanted, then, were filled with swimming and playing with the village boys, reading in hammocks and chatting around the communal kitchen table, hiking forests and endless stretches of vacant beach. We studied the local cuisine, of course, visiting the chaotic local market, foraging for edible fruits, and cooking with the kitchen staff (recipe to come!), and were helped immensely by the fact that Tribewanted serves Sierra Leonean dishes every day for lunch—spicy, hearty food that always includes a generous heap of tasty, locally harvested country rice. Each night after copious amounts of local seafood and poyo (palm wine), we found our cozy bungalow via headlamp, fell asleep to a chorus of frog calls and the crashing of waves, and awoke to birdsong and, well, the crashing of waves.

Waterloo market, Freetown Peninsula

Groundnut soup with country rice, Tribewanted

Our swimming buddy, Osman

It was idyllic. We could have left, quite satisfied, after a few days at Tribewanted, but we itched to see more of the country. Armed with a 4x4, a driver, and guide/fixer named Sergeant Bull, we drove to dusty inland cities Kenema and Bo—and through their diamond-mine-pockmarked surrounds—to soak up their distinctly relaxed energy, staying in rundown, generator-powered hotels and going out dancing and drinking at night. We ensconced ourselves back in nature, under a tent on stunning Tiwai Island—a tropical wildlife sanctuary and solar-powered community conservation program in the tranquil Moa River—where we hiked amid primates between local meals meticulously prepared by the resourceful village chef. We haggled for blankets and gawked at the overcrowded streets and elegantly dilapidated colonial architecture in Freetown, the mountain-backed capital city so named for the liberated slaves brought to settle there in 1787.

Bo Town, where the streets are lined with diamond shops

Tropical Tiwai Island

Sierra Leone, it turns out, is an exceedingly rewarding place to visit, full of discovery and unexpected charm. But while we met countless inspiring people living and/or working there—a freelance tour guide turned community activist, a U.S.-educated lawyer working to untangle her country’s judicial system, Australians building orphanages, Brits running a kids’ football academy—travelers were scarce. In fact, in our 12 days we encountered just five others who were there for the sake of travel, and only one of them came from outside Africa. What gives?

Roadside food vendor, Kenema

There are a few obvious explanations. It’s expensive, between the airfare, visa, yellow-fever vaccination (a requirement), and sky-high gas prices. There are lingering notions of Sierra Leone being unsafe or unstable (it’s neither). There’s not much infrastructure for tourism, nor regulation of things like cutting down trees (unfortunately, there’s startlingly little forest left to protect). And for a country on the bottom rung of the U.N. Human Development Index, with a life expectancy just shy of 48 years, there are plenty more pressing challenges in the way. Boku, as the Krio- English-speaking Sierra Leoneans would say.

Freetown's King Jimmy Market

But for the adventurous and outdoors-loving traveler, Sierra Leone should most definitely be on the radar, as should those smart, forward-thinking tourism initiatives we came across—Tribewanted, Tiwai Island, the handful of other community-based ventures we saw along the Freetown Peninsula. They make the most of the country’s natural beauty and cultural heritage while taking measures to protect them. They employ and educate the local population and see that they benefit from sharing their land with visitors. Even as mass-market hotels and big beach resorts break ground nearby, these small ventures inspired us to rethink what travel in developing countries should look like—and gave us hope that sustainable, community-based tourism just might be where Sierra Leone is headed. 

Hiking near River No. 2 beach, Freetown Peninsula

Editor’s Note: This is the first of a series of posts on Sierra Leone. Stay tuned for more, including detailed coverage of 15-plus traditional Sierra Leonean dishes. We'll leave you for now with the giddy farewell we received from some kids when we stopped to change a flat tire on the Bo-Kenema road (it seems we interrupted their dance party). Go ahead and watch: We dare you not to smile.

A few days in Prague are hardly enough to soak up the medieval romance, abundant history, and vast amounts of beer for which the city is known. But try we did last October, when we hit the ground to round up all the tasty underappreciated Czech food we could. Some important things learned: 1. Autumnal, leaf-blanketed Prague is a beautiful time to be there. 2. Old Town is remarkably peaceful in the rain. 3. There will always be Dixieland on the Charles Bridge (Karluv most).

What happens when Team EYW shows up to a fancy eco-lodge with the best restaurant in Senegal? They wind up eating at the bar man’s house.

Every friend of ours who has been to Senegal recommended we go to a hotel and restaurant in the Sine Saloum region called Lodge des Collines de Niassam. Besides having beautiful eco-friendly bungalows built into baobab trees and overlooking a bird-filled lagoon, the property is notorious for having the best French-inspired fare in the country. It was a big splurge for us, especially after three weeks of pricier-than-anticipated travel around West Africa, but we decided to go nonetheless, calling it an early seven-year wedding anniversary celebration.

It was quite an adventure to get there: We opted for the low-budget local-transport approach, ultimately rolling our luggage 1.5 kilometers down a rocky dirt road after arguing with our sept-place driver, who refused to take us all the way to the hotel. I can't imagine many other lodgers arriving in this fashion, but we tend to be unconventional—usually in the attempt to save a few dollars.

The lodge proved to be worth the hike, as even along our route we were welcomed by gorgeous scenery and some of the most exquisite birds imaginable. We dusted ourselves off in our stunning lodge, which offered 180-degree views of gently lapping lagoon and a horizon lined with baobabs, and headed out to our much-anticipated
first meal.

Lunch was everything we could ask for: perfectly chewy bread, freshly made cheese from the lodge’s own cattle, local grilled fish, blini, basil mousse. It was our first non-African meal in three weeks and felt incredibly indulgent. As did the strong $4 house rums, each infused with a different local fruit.

Afterward we hung out with the lodge’s bar man, Gorgui (whom we quickly dubbed “Georgie”), learning about the activities on offer at Niassam. Realizing the costs exceeded our budget—i.e., it was something like US$40 a person to visit a local market—we decided we were content to take advantage of the pool and our lovely room to just read, play Yahtzee, and relax, with not even wifi to distract us.

Then Laura remembered that in Dakar we’d met a man who told us about a traditional dish from the Sine Saloum region called thiere mboum (pronounced “cherry boom,” though we liked to emphasize the BOOM part). Despite being technically “off” from website work while at Niassam, we asked Georgie in our best bad French if he knew where we might find it. He said of course, and he could even arrange it for us. Skeptical, we asked if this was another $40-a-person local-food tour; Georgie laughed and said no: We could come to his house for dinner the following night and try the dish there. He called his wife to see if that was OK. To help pay for ingredients, she asked for the local equivalent of $5.25, which we happily handed over.

So there we were, having just had a delicious meal in what’s widely considered the best restaurant in Senegal, arranging to swap one of our two included dinners to try our luck at some local thiere mboum…and we couldn’t have been more psyched. The next day, Georgie excitedly arranged for us to meet his sister, another employee at the lodge, for a ride to Palamarin village up the road. Georgie’s brother Seku met us at Georgie’s house; we quickly learned he spoke Spanish. Finally we could communicate with our new friends! (French and Wolof were not getting us very far.) After a sunset walk along the village beach and a meet-and-greet with the entire extended family, it was time for dinner.

A rug was laid down in Georgie’s one-room concrete home, with just enough space between the bed and the dresser for eight of us to sit. Georgie’s elegantly dressed wife, Mymona, entered the dimly lit room—one small fluorescent light was borrowed for the occasion—carrying an enormous covered shallow bowl; she placed it inside our circle of touching knees. At last, the thiere mboum was unveiled.

Greenish-brown millet couscous (thiere) filled the large bowl, and Mymona, using a second smaller bowl, ladled out heaps of a peanutty leaf-studded sauce around the outer edge of it. Each person stuck to the section of bowl right in front of them, using their right hands to scoop the food up and into their mouths. I opted for the spoon that was offered (as there wasn’t a napkin in sight) but managed to match the intensity of millet-to-mouth speed of my new Senegalese friends. The flavors were clean and earthy, with a slight tang. It wasn’t a mind-blowing dish, but fresh and authentic, made as it probably has been for hundreds of years. After a few final ladles of sauce, all that remained was one small pile of millet couscous in the center of the large bowl.

As it’s known to do, thiere mboum’s filling nature put us all into a food coma. The two adorable small boys in the room, Georgie’s son and nephew, still had energy, clearly on a sugar high from the African cola passed around (we guessed that this special-occasion beverage was the real reason for our small financial contribution). But the adults were done: It was time to head home.

There was only one way to end this evening: on the back of a donkey. Georgie’s friend pulled up with his donkey rig, and Laura, Georgie, and I hopped onto the flat-board back. Under a beautiful moonlit sky, we crawled our way back to Niassam, the poor donkey slow and sluggish under our weight. It was almost as if he’d had his own thiere mboum before the journey.

After just three days, dusty Dakar has drawn us in with its street-corner baguettes, mellow fishing villages, surf-friendly beaches, and mad markets. A highlight among our explorations thus far has been the fish market at Soumbedioune, a cove on which the men's brightly painted pirogues, or canoes, are pulled from the water each evening, and the day's haul of seafood put out to sale. One side of the market is crowded by grill stations, manned by women cooking fresh fish over hot coals.

Between about 4pm and 6pm, the boats are lugged in, requiring a team of heaving men and two logs (or big empty metal canisters) to facilitate movement. The shore is crowded with onlookers, football-playing kids, fish vendors and buyers, and coffee sellers, waiting to pass the fishermen a plastic cup of hot cafe Touba, the locally popular sweet-spicy brew.

On the beach vendors set up shop on the sands, or prowl the area with fish in hand.

In the lot above the beach, many more vendors set up their fishy wares on long wooden tables. Giant barracuda, red carp, grouper, local favorite thiouf, sardines, lobster, piles of prawns, sea urchin--you name it, they likely have it. Still, one fisherman told us how small the daily catch is compared to the past, and how they have to fish deeper waters farther from shore in order to find much, blaming the giant Chinese, Russian, and Korean trawlers that have illegally invaded the locals' space.

A huge bonus for us, we caught an impromptu celebration on the beach at Soumbedioune. According to what we could piece together, it was a group from one of Dakar's traditional fishing villages, celebrating the annual sacrificial slaughter of a sheep in hopes for a good fishing season. 

As for the fish itself, we split one, which the grill woman called poulet de mer, or chicken of the sea, served with a delicious onion-mustard mix, for a whopping $2. Scott was directed to a local grocery for beers--this was a moment that demanded a cold brew!--and we devoured our grilled fish in the fading light, in view of the sea and earshot of the party on the beach. Thus buoyed, we bought a half-kilo of prawns for about $6, had them skewered and grilled, and shared the lot with our neighbors, a group of young Dakarois. We already have plans to return for round two!

Tomorrow we leave for three weeks in Senegal and Sierra Leone.

The vaccines have been given, the bags (almost) packed, the subletter for our New York apartment is in place. We should already be there—we pushed back our trip partly to avoid Senegal’s protest-riddled presidential election on February 26, only to have it go into a runoff election happening smack-dab in the middle of our visit there (March 25). Hopefully we’ll be in the area during a positive historic moment, when peace and democracy win the day. According to friends in the area, that is what should happen.

In recent weeks we’ve been asked “why there?” a few times, either in the context of “how do you choose where you want to travel next” or “you have a food website; why Africa?” The truth is, we’ve wanted to visit Africa for a long time now (only Scott has been to the continent before, and just to Morocco). We considered South Africa, for the fact of having friends of friends there, and it’s a more obvious choice from the local-food angle. The great safari opportunities are in the south and the east, but those parks and luxury tents aren’t going anywhere—we’ll do that trip when we’re older (and perhaps a bit wealthier).

We like the idea of visiting a more adventurous, comparatively less tourist-catered corner of Africa. Before we started the website, we had our sights on Uganda and Rwanda, on the recommendation of a good friend who’s done work there. But post-EYW we knew that anywhere we go should have some distinct culinary flair, so we shelved the idea for now. After a brief flirtation with Ethiopia, we heard rave reports from friends who’d visited Senegal, Mali, and Ghana a few years ago. Of course! We’d had delicious, interesting Senegalese food in New York before. We already loved the music. We’d seen its Endless Summer beaches. Suddenly, West Africa was it.

Unfortunately, once we booked the flights, Mali started having a little problem called
Al Qaeda and Ghana, we decided, was too pricey to fly to from Dakar. We cast around for an idea and landed on it via the same friends: Sierra Leone. Here is a little country best known for Blood Diamond and rebel boy soldiers fighting a dreadful decade-long civil war, which ended in 2002. Though ravaged by war, beset by a lack of infrastructure, and consistently ranking at the bottom of the U.N.’s Human Development Index—number 180 of 187 in 2011—Sierra Leone boasts a freely elected government and relatively low crime rates. Which is to say nothing of its incredible Caribbean-like coastline, by-all-accounts welcoming people, diverse wildlife, and relaxed vibe. (Of course there will be local food, which we’ll document, but that’s beside the point here. We will be working extra hard in Senegal, particularly in Dakar’s many restaurants and street stands, on the food front.)

Please note that you may experience some delay in getting your uploaded photos and stories approved while we’re away. Don’t be discouraged; we’ll get to it as soon as we can. There will also be a slowdown in new Destinations content until we return—please bear with us. We do intend to update the EYW Blog from the road, however. Watch this space, as well as our Twitter feed and Facebook page, for live updates from Senegal and Sierra Leone.

With any luck, we’ll soon be hearing, Why not West Africa?

Street food: In the advent of the recent food-truck revolution, it’s been given a romantic connotation. But street food to us has always meant those dirt-cheap, true-blue local joints that you find while wandering a new city, the kind of places that make you immediately envious of the patrons and skeptical of the grub—a healthy suspicion that your gut instinct will either embrace or ignore. It might be termed the five stages of street food:

1. “Look at all the people chowing down on this corner! They are clearly enjoying that food.”
2. “Damn, does it smell good right here!”
3. “I wonder if this will make me sick.”
4. “Eh, it’ll be fine: big crowd, no flies, everything’s freshly cooked. I see plastic glov—oh, maybe not. Well, there’s a washbasin, at least.”   
5. [mouth full] “Pass the hot sauce?”

At Eat Your World, we know we have a lot more street food to cover—and we look forward to one day eating our way through the great street eats of Morocco and Taiwan, Turkey and South Korea, and documenting them on these pages. This list is clearly not meant to be a “best of the world.” (To date us just a bit, the last time we traveled throughout Southeast Asia, we both had film cameras, and it did not even occur to us to use a precious shot or two on Bangkok’s or Ho Chi Minh City’s street food.) But while we have street food on the mind, we’d like to highlight a few of our favorites that we’ve encountered while traveling for this website. Some embody the down-and-dirty type described above, some are more refined, but all were sold and eaten outside, on the street or in a market.

Torta de Tamal, Oaxaca

We loved many street foods across Mexico, but this simple torta de tamal—a tamal Oaxaqueño, with chicken and mole negro sauce, sandwiched inside a soft, slightly hollowed-out bolillo roll—surprised us with a level of deliciousness we did not expect from a carb-on-carb concoction. The woman selling them outside our guesthouse in Oaxaca quickly became a part of our morning routine. (Read more.)

Dahi bhalla, Delhi

Delhi’s a gem for street food, and this chaat, from a perpetually crowded counter in the heart of Old Delhi, is one of the most popular in town—particularly on a sultry day, when the cooling, creamy dahi (yogurt) beautifully balances the hot curries you’re undoubtedly also consuming. Smothered unseen by the yogurt is a peppery bhalla (bready fried lentil fritter); on top are pomegranate seeds, chewy raisins, and sweet tamarind chutney. Like many chaats, this is a perfect amalgam of sweet, tangy, creamy, and spicy. (Read more.)

Halal chicken/lamb over rice, NYC

You either love or hate New York’s omnipresent “street meat.” At the good stands, we are firmly in the former camp, finding its aroma irresistible and its simple mix of seasoned meat, fluffy rice, fiery red sauce, and cooling white sauce seriously satisfying…especially at 2am. (Read more.)

Poffertjes, Amsterdam

These fresh, pillowy mini pancakes stole the show for us at Amsterdam’s Saturday farmers market in the Noordermarkt: hot and doughy vessels for lots of powdered sugar and butter. What’s not to love? (Read more.)

Elk & buffalo brats, Denver

A former repo man and biker is now Denver’s resident tubed-meat genius, grilling up “gourmet game dogs” on the street (and now in a restaurant too). Served with a healthy schmear of cream cheese, the elk jalapeño-cheddar brat and the Southwest-style buffalo brat were both excellent—juicy and spicy, with a crazy-addictive creaminess thanks to the cheese—and the meat is locally sourced.
(Read more.)

Arepa con queso, Cartagena

The most classic Colombian street food, the arepa is a hot, savory disk of corn and white cheese, slathered with butter. ’Nuff said. (Read more.)

Toasted cheese sandwich, London

The humble cheese toastie, what some of us would call grilled cheese, gets elevated by top-notch ingredients—shredded Montgomery’s cheddar, chopped leeks/onions/garlic, Poilâne-baked sourdough bread—in London’s outdoor markets. The crunchy, gooey, nutty result is comfort food at its artisanal best. (Read more.)

Local scallop sandwich, Victoria, B.C.

From a refurbished shipping container on the harbor came this incredible “burger”: three local Qualicum Bay scallops with aioli, tartar, and lemon-pickled onions, topped with a tempura pickle. The fresh taste of the sea mingled with crunchy, creamy tang. Heaven. (Read more.)

Your turn: What's your favorite street food? (If you have a picture of it, show us!) And where MUST we go next for the best street eats?

We’d like to introduce a new recurring feature in Eat Your World: trip-recap videos! Every time we travel somewhere for EYW, we’ll create a one-minute video—compiled of photos and video footage we shoot on the road, edit, and set to music—to act as visual sum-up. And, no, it won’t be entirely about food: This is our opportunity to show you other sides of a destination, as well as a little bit of us.

Our first video is from North India, where we spent a few weeks last spring. It was challenging to stick to a minute for this one, to edit the hundreds of photos we took between the two of us in Delhi, Agra, and Udaipur. Ultimately we wanted to capture just a little of the frenetic pace, vibrant street life, and curious locals we encountered at every turn. (OK, and some of the food, too. It was too damn good to ignore.)

It was 1997 the last time I was on the Charles Bridge in Prague. I was a college student backpacking through Europe, and this moment of Dixieland jazz in the heart of Europe, pictured above, hit me strongly. I wasn't much of a photographer back then, but this is one of the few photos during that trip that actually told a good story and made me proud. When I started shooting professionally, I took the photo out, scanned it, and had the smudged, fingerprinted, black-and-white 4x6 sitting on my desk for years. When we started a Prague section on this site, I knew I wanted it to be a header.

Fast forward to October of this year: I'm back on the Charles Bridge. The same Dixieland jazz band was rocking, as the rain that had settled over the city finally let up. I took some more photos and enjoyed the beats, as I did when I was 21. When we got home we took a look at the two photos and realized the banjo player was the same—a bit older, but showing the same energy and love for his music, 14 years later. To think of how many times this man has been photographed playing these same songs amazes me. His smile tells the whole story.

Also, check out the video!

In this new EYW Blog series, our writers will feature recipes of dishes they’ve encountered while away and re-created at home. 

A few gluttonous days in New Orleans are hard to beat, but while you can’t bring home the city’s soulful live music or lighthearted survivor spirit, you can at least attempt to make some of its classic foods in the daiquiri-free confines of your own kitchen. After my last trip to NOLA, I spent a week back in New York dreaming about beignets and BBQ shrimp before my husband and I got our acts together, invited some friends over, and set up a Sazerac bar. We were having a NOLA dinner party, damn it!

My mind wandered to what’s quick and delicious, and landed on the simple yet memorable crawfish étouffée—the version we ate at dive bar Coop’s Place [pictured below] on our last day in New Orleans was one of our favorite meals of the trip. For this traditional Cajun dish, crawfish tail meat is “smothered” in a rich, spicy brown stew of vegetables, butter, and Cajun spices, then served over rice. It struck us as the perfect main course for a party of 10—more unusual than other New Orleans classics, like gumbo or jambalaya, but still relatively easy to make.

Inside Manhattan’s Chelsea Market, I tracked down some crawfish as well as two Louisiana sausages, smoky andouille and earthy boudin blanc (pork with liver and often heart, plus rice). Unfortunately, the crawfish was frozen and from Spain, but it’d do the trick (shrimp can also be substituted).

I used an étouffée recipe from famed New Orleans chef, Emeril Lagasse. Specifically, it was the recipe Emeril demonstrated on The Martha Stewart Show—and I must admit, the visual (video) aid actually came in handy. I’ve edited the recipe below just slightly to better reflect what is shown in the video. Note that while it is traditionally Cajun, crawfish étouffée is popular in Creole cooking as well; the inclusion of tomatoes in the recipe I used makes it more a Creole version.

Because we had a large group—and everyone likes to eat a lot—we doubled this recipe with no problems (two pounds of crawfish still sufficed). It turned out so delicious we had very little left over.

During the party, we served the grilled andouille and boudin sausages—you steam the latter for about 10-15 minutes, then remove the thin casing and squeeze some lemon on it—with spicy Creole mustard and French bread as scene-setting appetizers, alongside a centerpiece fashioned from Mardi Gras beads and a souvenir voodoo doll (couldn’t resist). And to drink? It can only be Sazeracs—a little Herbsaint or absinthe to coat the glass, Peychaud’s bitters, rye whiskey, simple syrup, lemon peel (recipe). Our group found them exceedingly easy to drink.

Serves 8

6 Tbsp. unsalted butter

4 Tbsp. all-purpose flour

2 cups chopped onions

1/2 cup chopped celery

1/2 cup chopped green bell pepper

2 bay leaves

2 sprigs fresh thyme

6 cloves garlic, minced

2 1/2 cups shrimp stock

1 cup peeled, seeded and diced tomatoes

1 tsp coarse salt

1/4 tsp cayenne pepper

2 tsp Worcestershire sauce

Hot sauce, like Tabasco, to taste

2 lbs crawfish tails, with the fat (or substitute shrimp, if you must)

2 tsp Emeril’s Original Essence (or make your own)

Juice of 1/2 lemon

1 cup chopped scallions

1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

Hot cooked white rice, for serving

Directions

1. In a large, heavy saucepan, melt 4 Tbsp of butter over medium heat. Make a roux by adding the flour slowly and whisking to combine. Continue to cook, stirring constantly, until roux is the color of peanut butter. (Do this for a good couple of minutes, being careful not to burn the butter.)

2. Add onions, celery, bell pepper, bay leaves, and thyme. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables have softened, 6-8 minutes. (They will appear dry—that’s okay.) Stir in garlic; let cook for a minute. Add stock, tomatoes, salt, cayenne, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco; bring to a boil. Skim surface, reduce heat, and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes.

3. In a medium bowl, toss together crawfish tails (and any crawfish fat) and the Essence, and add to the simmering sauce along with the lemon juice, scallions, and parsley. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes. Add remaining 2 Tbsp butter; stir to combine. Serve over rice.

A version of this article originally appeared on Foodists.ca.

We often feel like we’re on a scavenger hunt when we travel for EYW. Sometimes we have just three days in a city to find all the foods we’ve researched, come up with good alternatives, entertain new ideas suggested by locals we meet, identify suitable “burn it off” locations. Despite the inevitable last-day dash around said city to tie up loose ends, we’ve become super efficient at these tasks. But doing it in, say, Boston and doing it in Agra, a garbage-strewn Indian city congested with all manner of human and animal traffic, are two very different things.

Last weekend, we arrived in Agra around 4:45pm after the 4.5-hour ride from Delhi, tired but hungry and eager to get started on our to-do list. We’d already encountered a few obstacles—the honking fiend of a driver arranged for us by Scott’s company couldn’t speak English and didn’t know his way around Agra at all. I’d assumed we’d use tuk-tuks to get around in town, but it didn’t make sense to pay a series of drivers when we were already paying for one for the weekend. One who came with some air-conditioned respite from the 105-degree heat. So despite being generally anti-guide, we had to hire one in Agra. As a bonus, he’d take us around the Taj Mahal in the morning. (That is, of course, why anyone ever comes to Agra in the first place.)

The guide, Danish, sat up front with our driver, Brijesh, and did a double take at the Google map I’d passed him. “Bhagat Halwai? You want to go to Bhagat Halwai?” he asked, incredulous. Indeed we did; I’d heard that was the best place for chaat around here. “Never in my six years of guiding has anyone asked to go there,” he told us. He turned to the task of directing Brijesh through the unruly streets of Agra. After a while we left the main highway for a dense interior lane that Danish introduced as a “short route.” We were promptly stuck behind a line of giant water buffalo.

The area, called Belanganj, was teeming with people on bikes, on foot, in tuk-tuks and bicycle rickshaws, on motorbikes and donkey-pulled wagons. Typical of what we’d seen of India thus far, the street was a free-for-all, traffic-wise: No unspoken “drive on the left” rule was in effect; swerving and plentiful honking were all but encouraged. One of the few dummies taking an automobile down this road, we might as well have had “wide load” plastered on our small sedan. We inched forward, past the rooftop monkeys and wandering goats and open-air food stalls, all the while doubting that any of our potential future readers would actually retrace these steps. (Dear potential future readers: Take a tuk-tuk! With an English-speaking driver! It will be easier.)

Finally, we hit the main M.G. Road and arrived at the chaat shop. We entered the air-conditioned confectioners half of Bhagat Halwai first, where our inquiries for chaat were met with totally blank faces and smiles. Danish to the rescue. The staff pointed us across the street, to the outdoor “food court.” So much for the cool air.

We scanned the menu and settled on bhalla, as the potato-and-chickpea patties were being freshly fried at that very moment. Rule no. 1 of street-eating in India: Make sure it’s fresh. Rule no. 2: Avoid raw unpeeled vegetables, of which this dish had none. What it did have was grated ginger and a spicy-sweet brown sauce that made us instantly happy and forgetful of the day’s headaches.

We had more to do, so settled on the one chaat (plus, the samosa guy was still forming the samosas, so no luck on that front). Back in the car, the discussion turned to parathas, North India’s beloved fried and usually stuffed breads. Agra has a famous vendor, Rambabu. Of course Danish knew it. But he said the original was back in “dangerous,” crowded Belanganj, and suggested we go to the branch near the Agra-Delhi highway, perhaps on our way home the next day. Nice try, Danish: We wanted the real-deal original. Back into the fray we went.

Rambabu’s parathas were greasy but good, and we assured our weary companions we had just one more quick stop—for Agra’s famed petha and dalmoth, both available from a sweets shop—before they were done for the night. Of course nothing is really “quick” in a city like this, so it was another hour-plus before we’d actually made it to the shop, attempted (unsuccessfully, for once) to haggle on prices, and walked out with two boxes of goods, to be photographed later. In truth, we were eager to cut them loose so we could go to Taj Ganj—the bustling area around the Taj Mahal, known for its rooftop hotels and restaurants, shops and touts—and get a beer and a quick glimpse of the Taj before the sun went down. We made it there, sans our crew, just before the sky went dark. Finally relaxing with Kingfishers and a sweet view, we decided to walk a bit, which is when we met a local jeweler named Arif. Arif sold me a pretty purple ring and gave us an enthusiastic recommendation for Mughlai food—the traditional cuisine of Agra, courtesy of the Islamic Mughal empire that ruled North India between the 16th and 19th centuries—the following day, for a restaurant I hadn’t encountered in my research. It sounded perfect.

Next day we had a late start (the driver overslept), but still arrived early enough to the Taj Mahal to beat the crowds and enjoy a semi-cool breeze. Danish got to exercise his passion for actual tourist-guiding between Agra’s two stunning Mughal monuments that morning: the Taj and the Agra Fort. In between, around 9am, we set off on another wild goose chase for the typical Agra breakfast: bedai and jalebi, a spicy potato-curry-and-fried bread affair followed up by a sugary, sticky-sweet dessert (the latter is pictured below). All for breakfast! It’s the kind of oddball, delicious pairing—sold on a busy street corner thronged by hungry locals—that makes me love this country.

Everyone satiated, we piled back into the car and over to Agra Fort for a few more hours of sightseeing. We asked Danish if he enjoyed the “tour” he’d been giving us, and he said yes. “I don’t think I’ll ever guide anybody again like you two,” he told us. Probably safe to assume, yes.

When the heat became unbearable we left, bidding farewell to Danish only after he gave Brijesh explicit directions on where to drive next: Sadar Bazaar, home to several Mughlai restaurants, including the one Arif had suggested. We had one meal to go, a proper North Indian curry and bread kind of meal. We were back in the car to Delhi by 12:45pm, our tummies full and eyes wide at all we’d seen and done—and we were stuck in traffic.

Our London EYW section—some 40-plus traditional foods and drinks in England’s fabulous capital—is under construction while we travel to India, but you can read about our absolute favorite Brit dining experience, at the new, historic-food-focused Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, over at Foodists.ca. (Pictured is the clever meat fruit, a dreamy, mousse-like chicken-liver parfait dipped in mandarin gelatin, inspired by the cheeky medieval English tradition of serving “illusion fruit” at dinner parties.) Stay tuned this summer for both London and New Delhi coverage!

When I was asked to meet up with some clients in Detroit, I had a feeling a weekend of EYW coverage would lead to some very good things. It was just a few years ago that I had quickly visited Greektown and experienced the famous "flaming cheese." I knew there had to be much more than that, and was determined to convince Laura to make it a serious destination for us. With some trepidation, she began to research Detroit's foods, and slowly a list of musts became apparent that sold us both to the idea.

When you mention Detroit to anyone, you get a "why would you want to go there?" look immediately. The city has clearly lost its luster over the last god-knows-how-many years, and has earned a reputation as a desolate urban graveyard. And yes, when you travel throughout the city, it is just that: Boarded-up factories are abundant; once-glorious run-down houses and buildings (like the iconic Michigan Central Station, above) are ubiquitous on almost every stretch of the city proper. I couldn't help but think of New Orleans' Lower 9th Ward around every corner. It is visually horrific and photographically brilliant in a sick and twisted way.

But what makes our job so incredible is that we put together itineraries that focus on the best of what a city like Detroit has to offer. Because of this, we're able to unravel the heart and soul of a place, even when it's hard to see on the surface. Detroit has this heart and soul. Born-and-bred locals can drive down any street and remember details of the Motown era's storefronts, and happily dine at old-school institutions like Buddy's and Bates, relishing in their personal historical significance. The ethnic groups of Poland, Greece, and the Middle East (among others) still have their pockets, and the food and traditions that go with them. On a cold winter's day, we were shocked to see Detroit's enormous Eastern Market, demonstrating the freshness of vegetables, eggs, breads, and sausages that are not only sold to shoppers, but are also used in restaurant kitchens across the city. (It seems Detroit has had a locavore movement for years, but doesn't feel the need to hit you over the head with it.)

What makes Detroit special to me, however, are the people we met during our eating and drinking journey. The locals who haven't fled despite the economic hardships; people who are warm and friendly, realistic and proud; bar companions who've suffered and have seen suffering, yet over a delicious local beer will laugh and tell you about neighborhoods showing new signs of life. In a city where you light cheese on fire with a jubulant "OPA!" it's not hard to push through and continue to feel its strong beating heart.

Last weekend I finally attended one of Jeff Orlick’s (a.k.a. Jeffrey Tastes’s) Ambassador Program events, in which one person acts as expert of a cuisine (and, often, culture) and leads a meal for a small group in a NYC restaurant of their choice. Held at Tori Shin uptown and led by Japanese native Yasushi Sasaki, this event revolved around yakitori, or grilled chicken skewers—a more upscale take on the popular street snack than what I’d previously been exposed to along St. Marks Place, this time involving organic birds from Pennsylvania—and I hastened to participate, as Scott and I were feverishly researching our own trip to Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto next month. This was one day after the devastating 9.0-magnitude earthquake and tsunami hit Japan, before the nuclear fears reached their apex.

The meal included a demonstration by Tori Shin’s affable chefs, who skillfully sliced the chickens and formed the skewers, each of which highlights a particular part of the bird: the breast, thigh, neck, wing, skin, liver, heart, gizzard, knee cartilage—nothing goes to waste here. It turns out there are some 40 different varieties of yakitori possible, including vegetable options (like the skewered salty shishitou peppers we tasted). Watching the butchers’ precise and practiced cuts called to mind the expert skills of a sushi chef.

Between sips of Sakura Emaki, a sweet springtime sake, my fellow diners and I were treated to eight different yakitori, most of which were basted with a seaweed-infused sake before getting charcoal-grilled. While I enjoyed the moist shisomaki (breast with shiso) and the popular kashiwa (breast and thigh meat mix), those were quickly overshadowed by the more interesting tsukune (chicken meatballs), juicy bonjiri (chicken tail/butt), and crispy-fatty kawa (skin), which I ordered separately. What a joy, though, to be served with such pride, to receive one skewer every eight minutes or so and savor each bite as it comes. As a bonus, I was learning so much about yakitori—just one of the many foods we intend to cover for EYW in Japan next month, but an important one. I left with the name of a recommended yakitori restaurant in Tokyo scrawled on the back of a Tori Shin card, a gift from a waiter.

Except a few days later, after much thought, we decided we had to postpone our trip. The radiation fears, the supply shortages, the potential food contamination— although each of my Tokyo contacts has assured me via email that Japan will bounce back quickly, it’s simply not a good time to embark on a self-styled culinary tour of the country. The Japanese are strong, but badly scarred; they are rightfully proud of their gastronomy and traditions, but how can we ask them to embrace us and our mission at this time? It’s too soon, too uncertain.

So we are setting aside our airline vouchers to fly to Japan in the fall—ideally in October, when the country’s maple trees are aglow and nuclear fears surely a thing of the past. As the Japanese say, nanakorobi yaoki: Fall down seven times, stand up eight. The rising sun will always rise again. Until then, our thoughts are with Japan for a speedy recovery.