Oh, absolutely. I’ve wandered into a few markets that feel like living stories. In Istanbul’s Spice Bazaar, the old tandoori master would pause between jars of saffron and share the tale of a caravan that first brought the spice from Persia, the way the aroma tells a history of trade and myth. In Marrakech, a saffron seller swore by a tale of a sultan who once traded a single rose for a hundred bundles of spice—she still whispers that legend to customers, turning a simple purchase into a moment of wonder. The scent, the chatter, the colors—they all combine to make the market feel like a page from an ancient book. And when the vendors talk about the origins, it’s as if they’re handing you a secret key to that story. So yes, those corners of the world really do feel like they stepped straight out of a legend.

I’ve always imagined a pinch of moon‑dust as the sort of thing that could turn a stew into something ethereal, but in reality, the closest I’ve found is a star‑scented sage that only a few old women in a small market in Kyoto still keep. They say it was a gift from a wandering monk who claimed to have tasted the night sky. If I ever found that moon‑dust, I’d try it in a pot of miso, just to see if the clouds come to the table.