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Beside the tram stop on Vitosha Boulevard there is a little nook in the wall. There, in the alcove trays bend, heavily loaded with syrupy baklava and kadaif (in case you are suprised, the Ottoman Empire did extend to Bulgaria too). There are clouds of fluffy meringues, cedar coloured flat walnut cookies and the sweetest lokum (turkish delight) I’ve ever tried. Everything is sold by the kilogram that the biscuit seller carefully weighs on his retro scale. I ask for a little square of baklava. I choose from the darker tray, from the portions with kanela (cinnamon). As I receive the cube on a plastic plate with fork I muse that only I could know how superfluous it was plating that up. Soon syrup coats my fingers. It’s a good one. Layers of homemade pastry, so fine, yet with a floury grit to them. This is no factory made baklava. The paper thin sheets of pastry symmetrically ooze layers of cinnamon infused sugary goodness. As I eat it I am craving some strong turkish coffee but 2 weeks of insomnia before this singing recording tomorrow eliminate that option. Nevertheless the offering of this little booth leaves me sated. Head spinning with the sugar, I walk onward to my tram.