What does milk taste like when it’s unshackled from the ordinary? Not the pale, thin whisper you’ve known—but something older, deeper, a draught that clings to the lips like silk and speaks of damp earth, wild grass, and the breath of beasts. In Hațeg Country, where the Carpathians loom and the past feels half-forgotten, buffalo still wander the meadows, their dark eyes steady, their horns like ancient crowns. This is milk not from a machine, but from muscle, soil, and time itself. Buffalo milk—