We also had mind-changing baklava, two kinds made with pistachios and one with walnuts, at Develi (“since 1912”), outside the Spice Bazaar. I tried two other places that did nothing to convert me to the stuff. We had the best plums of either of our lives from a roadside gardener on Buyukada Island. I got to taste 14 cheeses at the great little Antre shop in Cihangir and several more while walking through markets. We both developed a taste for simit, the sesame-encrusted rounds of bread that are indescribable; they were great whether straight off a vendor’s head near the Spice Bazaar, fresh from a wood-burning oven in a bakery or slightly humidified on the ferry. And I’m here to say Turkish delight could be addictive. It’s not quite Istanbul Chuckles; the flavors — saffron or rose or mastic — elevate it. Finally, Bob warned me off Turkish coffee but hooked me on Turkish tea, served in a special small glass and meant to be sweetened; I preferred it plain. For some reason, though, it always made me want to nod off. The last time I had that reaction was in another city where we felt like ghosts — Turin — and it happened every time I had a chocolate-coffee bicerin.