Ireland

Push into a pub as the rain comes sideways and the day rearranges itself around a bowl of Irish stew — lamb, potato and onion gone soft and savoury — and a pint of Guinness settling to black in your hand. Ireland’s food grew out of a green, rain-fed island of grass and grazing: honest and hearty, built on beef and lamb, on potatoes turned a dozen ways, and on dairy so good the butter is practically its own food group.

Morning is an institution. A full Irish breakfast lands heavy — sausages, back bacon, both black and white pudding, a griddled potato farl — with dense brown soda bread, risen with buttermilk and bicarbonate rather than yeast, to wipe the plate clean. On the Atlantic coast the reward is cold-water plenty: oysters shucked to order, a thick seafood chowder, the day’s catch off a Cork trawler. And late at night the country’s newest classic arrives in a paper bag — the spice bag, salt-and-chilli chicken and chips under a slick of curry sauce.