Today I had pasta with black truffles for lunch at Benjamin’s. As usual, I washed it down with his excellent Teran. He went to Zagreb this morning, and so I sat with his wife and daughter, Milica and Martina Pahović. Milica did the cooking in his absence, and Martina the waitressing. Having paid Martina for my meal, I got up to leave. And then I noticed that a gulp of wine still remained in my glass. “Can’t do this,” I said and returned to my table, “it’s Benjamin’s wine!” I gulped it down and reached for the door with a big smile on my face. Milica and Martina laughed, but I was not kidding about it. Benjamin’s Teran is not for wasting wantonly. I know how much wisdom and toil it takes to make it and bring it to the family restaurant in the archway between the lower and upper squares in Motovun. As far as I am concerned, there cannot be any kidding about it at all.