The first time I ever saw a bidet, I peed in it. I was young; I wasn't very well traveled, and, well, the porcelain bathroom apparatus for washing one's nether-regions found in many European hotels and homes looked like a toilet. That was in Florence. And it was also on that trip when I first learned about gnocchi (which I'd grossly mispronounced). And since then I've had a bit of a torrid culinary romance with the dumpling.

I order it in restaurants, where, if made right, is pillow soft. I buy them in supermarkets – at least when I can find them. Just last week, I was wandering around a big chain supermarket in Los Angeles unable to find my favorite dumpling. When I uttered the word "gnocchi" to an employee, she just stared back at me. After the third supermarket employee asked me "what's a gnocchi?" I gave up.

I was on a commuter train – in Los Angeles. I kept repeating these words to myself as the Metrolink light rail whisked me through East LA, the city's underwhelming skyline in the distance. Union Station was the next stop and terminus. From there I'd gawk at the station's interior, in all its Art Deco beauty, and then hop on the red line to Thai Town.

Yes, that's right: the subway. The Los Angeles Metro Rail, as it's called, consists of six lines, all named by color, that snake through the greater Los Angeles area, mostly above ground but, as in the case of the line I took, the red line, underground as well. An Angelino can now travel from the San Fernando Valley to Long Beach. And that's just the Metro Rail. There's also the Metrolink, which goes even further afield and has been running since 1992.

Until recently, "public transportation" and "Los Angeles" seemed like antonyms, antipoles that were part of two different worlds. There are cities all over the planet with functioning rapid transit systems, subways and monorails and trains; and then there was Los Angeles, which seemed to exist outside the sphere of normal cities, an exception to the rule where cars reigned on the road and the most popular form of self expression was found on one's vanity plate or personalized license plate.

A few facts about beer:

• In ancient Babylonia, where the first beer was supposedly made, they took the sudsy stuff so seriously that if you made a bad batch, you'd be drowned.
• The Vikings' version of heaven, Valhalla, was really a great meat and beer hall in the sky, complete with a giant goat whose udders spewed-you guessed it-beer.
• Light makes beer go bad, hence the reason one usually finds it in a tinted glass bottle. When exposed to prolonged light, beer gets a skunk-y smell (Corona, anyone?).
• The melody to the American national anthem, the "Star Spangled Banner," was taken from a beer drinking song. Seriously.
• Much of the corporate brewery beers from other countries that you might consume in the United States was either made in Canada or America.

[Record scratch across the heavens] Wait, what? That's right. Big breweries don't necessarily fall over themselves to keep this a secret. But they don't exactly advertise it, either.

Go to your local supermarket to buy pasta and you'll find about a dozen different shapes from which to choose. Travel from the ankle to the arch of the heel in Italy, though, and you'll find 150 different types. And those are just the pasta types that begin with the letter "C."

Each of Italy's 20 regions has a distinct cuisine. Pizza crust thickens and thins. Ingredients go in and out of certain sauces. Meat is cooked in entirely different ways. On the island of Pantelleria, for example, you'll find as much couscous on the menu of an Italian restaurant as you will pasta. In Sicily bread crumbs are an actual sauce you'll find in pasta. In Valle d'Aosta, in the Alpine north, you'll find fondue made with fontina cheese. Culinary diversity is one of the wonders of travel. And Italy is one of the best places to discover new food.

You thought you knew Italian cuisine? Not until you've traveled from Torino to Taranto. Here's a quick guide to some of Italy's best regional cuisine.

The most memorable, awkward meal of my life took place in an alleyway. Memorable for what I was about to eat, awkward because I was a 6-foot, 200-pound Westerner molded into a red, plastic child-sized chair, my knees rising above the matching table, like a Brobdingnagian who went on a walk and ended up in Hoi An, on the central coast of Vietnam, lost and hungry.

When an ancient woman in a conical hat placed a small bowl filled with noodles, pork and vegetables in front of me, I quickly forgot about my lumbering self or that I had crossed into a realm few other tourists here do; in a town crammed with Vietnamese restaurants that cater to Western tourists, these alleyway eateries are tucked away almost out of the view of most visitors.

I looked around: I was the only non-Vietnamese sitting at the dozen or so tables flanking the alley, and realized I had found the travelers' holy grail: authenticity. But that's not necessarily what had motivated me to wedge myself into this form-fitting chair. I was there to eat cao lau, an enigmatic noodle dish that I'd read about in an out-of-print book about Vietnamese cuisine.

I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and dug in.

Tourists don't come to Amsterdam to eat. The Dutch city of debauchery attracts legions of travelers for other things – like, say, flowers or pretty paintings or twee canals – all of which build up quit an appetite. So one would think the city would have a flourishing street food scene to feed all these munchies-craving visitors. And not just in terms of availability but that some culinary entrepreneur would have realized this potential in the market and offer some seriously creative food (think state fair everything-on-a-stick cuisine or some variety on the theme of comfort food).

I recently found myself in Amsterdam with a sudden case of the munchies. After becoming hungry from ... um, looking at so much art (yeah, that's it), I wandered the city hoping to find something good to eat. I had to walk for a while, scouring the streets, peeking into storefronts, but I eventually found the best spots to quell my hunger.

Here, in no particular order, are best street bites in Amsterdam.

I get annoyed with myself when I eat a bad meal – especially at a restaurant. And even more so when I'm traveling. Such a waste of time and money and calories, I think. Yes, these are first-world problems but frustrating nonetheless.

Rather than meditate on the meals we'd prefer to forget, let's remember the ones we want to stick with us; the ones we wish wouldn't end; the one's we'd travel halfway around the globe to savor again.

This is the third year in a row I've asked chefs and food writers to compile their favorite meals of the previous year. (Read 2011 part 1 and part II and 2010 part I and part II.) I had such an overwhelming response this year, I broke the post into two. First chefs and now food writers.

Here are some of my favorite food writers' most memorable meals of 2012 (in alphabetical order).

Two months ago I was at the New York Wine & Food festival. I happened to be walking by the main stage – where star chefs had been giving cooking demos all weekend – when the next chef was announced. When Guy Fieri hit the stage, the 200 or so people in the audience roared. They leapt to their feet. They fist pumped to the southern Rock that was blasting from the PA. And I stood there, my mouth agape, wondering when (if ever) will our veneration of chefs ever slow down.

Not that this reverence for food and the people who make it is necessarily a bad thing. But you have to admit, did anyone see this coming two decades ago? (You're lying if you say yes.) As someone who, um, eats food and also makes a living writing about it, I'm obviously elated with the phenomenon. And there's nothing more I like than hearing about where chefs eat when they're not in the kitchen. And so I recently got out my virtual Rolodex and asked some chefs where in the world they had their favorite eating experiences of 2012.

I first heard about Lieka from her boss. He runs a tour guide company in Amsterdam. And over beers, he listed the types of tours his company offers. "There are Red Light District tours, there are food tours and there are drinking tours."

"Oh yeah!" he said, "I also have a woman offer a workshop in giving oral sex to men."

That's when there was a record scratch across the heavens. Wait, what? It's for tour groups who want to do a little something different while in Amsterdam and it's for bachelorette parties. "It's really quite fun," he said. And then he mentioned the teacher was going to be stopping by his office – conveniently located next to the pub we were sitting in – and offered to introduce me.

And so, smack in the center of the Dutch metropolis and a herring's throw from the Red Light District, where packs of guys roam to gawk at the ladies in their little booths, I met with Lieka. An attractive brunette in her mid-20s, and as long as I wouldn't use her last name (or her photo), she kindly allowed me to interview her about her most unusual profession.

There are parties and then there are parties in which one of the guests is standing in the corner caressing a dead mallard duck. Then again, this is Amsterdam and it's sometimes hard to tell if one is hallucinating from taking too much ... um, jetlag, or if, in this anything-goes city, people really do never leave home without their taxidermied animal.

I was visiting a friend in Amsterdam and we ended up at the opening party for the flashy new Andaz hotel there. The party, apparently, was filled with Dutch celebrities and some members of the country's royal family. It was also attended by the mayor and the hotel's designer, Marcel Wanders. There was a DJ spinning hip-hop and pop tunes. There were crazy (and apparently permanent) video art installations (like one of a girl jumping up and down on a hotel bed). There was great food. There were enough cocktails to drown in. But I just wanted to talk to the man with the dead duck.