There is something in Müslüm Sümbül’s singsong cry — that unmistakable call of the simit seller — that seems to charm Istanbul into opening up.
As he walks, hands appear out of basement windows. Busy workers stop in their tracks. Baskets, tied to rope, spill out from balconies high above the street. Even the ears of dogs prick up.
“Simit! Fresh, crispy simit!” Sümbül bellows as he moves uphill, drawing out the word simiiiit like a saxophonist over a lingering note.
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