Land afternoon, taxi to Savassi, trendy but not touristy. First mission: pão de queijo. Corner padaria, balls still warm, cheese pulls like mozzarella. Order two, no, three, coffee on the side, milky and sweet. Walk off the carbs in Praça da Liberdade, museums glow gold, kids chase bubbles. Sunset from the rooftop mirante, city lights blink on, hills roll soft.

Evening one, check the festival calendar. If International Theater Festival is on, score tickets, venues scatter from old cinemas to open plazas. Shows in Portuguese but movement tells the story, clowns tumble, actors scream passion. Street food outside, tropeiro beans with sausage, torresmo crackling. Beer cold, crowd sings along to something you don’t know, clap anyway.

Morning two, Mercado Central. Chaos in the best way, aisles narrow, vendors shout prices. Stall 42 for pão de queijo, bigger than fist, gooey center. Next, liver with jiló, bitter green slices, weirdly addictive. Buy goiabada cascade, guava paste hard as brick, slice thin with cheese later. Coffee from a thermos, strong enough to wake the dead. Leave with bags of spices, cachaça mini bottles.

Afternoon Pampulha. Bus or rideshare, lake shimmers, Niemeyer’s church floats like a spaceship. Walk the curve, tiles blue and white, inside light pours through colored glass. Casino now museum, yacht club still posh. Sit by the water, feed ducks leftover pão, breeze cools the sweat. Sunset turns the lake orange, joggers lap the path, feels peaceful.

Night feijoada quest. Small boteco in Santa Tereza, wooden tables, soccer on TV. Order the big pot, black beans thick with meats, farofa toasted cassava, orange slices to cut the fat. Spoon stands up, perfect. Caipirinha with lime and rapadura sugar, rougher than Rio’s. Locals argue politics, pull you into the debate, laugh when you butcher Portuguese.

Day three, festival deeper. If not theater season, Comida di Buteco runs sometime, bars compete with petiscos. One spot does linguiça stuffed pão de queijo, another pastel with hearts of palm. Vote with your belly, wash down with cold Brahma. Street musicians start, berimbau twangs, someone drags you into a circle, feet stumble but heart races.

Pampulha again, but lake cruise this time. Tiny boat chugs slow, captain points Niemeyer buildings, tells stories of construction scandals. Pack cheese and cachaça, float with the ducks. Afternoon in Mangabeiras park, trails wind up, city shrinks below. Picnic with leftover feijoada, ants join the party. Viewpoint at sunset, whole BH spreads, lights like stars fallen.

Food market day four, Feira Hippie Sunday if timing works. Praça da Estação, stalls for miles, but food section first. Caldo de cana squeezed fresh, sugarcane juice with lime, ice clinks. Coxinha bigger than hand, chicken and cream cheese, dough fried crisp. Buy artesanal cheese, minas curado, salty firm. Walk aisles, leather belts, hammocks, leave with a clay pot for feijoada at home.

Evening theater or music. Palácio das Artes if something’s on, acoustics perfect, ballet or orchestra. Or bar in São Pedro, live chorinho, guitar and flute weave, old men tap feet. Order pinga com mel, cachaça and honey, smooth burn. Pastel de angu, cornmeal pocket with beef, different texture, same comfort.