I have one non-negotiable rule of travel: the first breakfast in any new place happens at the market, standing up if necessary.
Why it works
Markets tell you what a city actually eats, which stalls the grandmothers trust, and what is in season — which quietly writes your menu for the rest of the trip.
Follow the person carrying the most bread. They know things.
Order whatever the stall next to the flower seller is having. In eleven years the rule has failed me exactly once, and even that was a good story.