At the time when Zamfira had his tavern up on the Magura, in the woods at the foot, there would have been a large pack of white wolves. Many of the travelers who did not know the places very well, they cornered and most of them, who fell or were out of the way-out of fatigue, they tore to pieces. However, somehow, the wolves did not attack the tavern or its owner. And so, word spread that this pack would be guarded, so that only the bravest and best of people could climb up to the magura. You can see that Zamfira could only warn everyone not to take the road to the mansion except during the day, in the light and only on the marked road.

Zamfira was proud and was at peace with what she had – that is, for the price, only the still – and every hiker found her a smile and a kind word. The tavern on the Magura had spread the word in all four countries – both due to the hospitality and the incredible brandy, which could only be found there. Therefore, whoever was on his way there, was received with warmth and open hearts – even if he was a pilgrim in search of salvation, a merchant who had just come from the Turkish lands, villagers from around the place, or a curious nobleman, in search of adventures.

Zamfira was tireless in her passion to create the best drinks that had existed until then. There were days when he would leave the pub in the morning and go down through the woods to pick herbs. Summer day until the evening he did nothing else, and when he returned to the tavern, the sun had set for a long time. And on one of these occasions, it is said that he found a white wolf cub in the forest.

He was wounded in one of his legs. A bullet, for sure. The wound was bleeding profusely, and Zamfira approached. The wolf shows its fangs, but Zamfira assures him that she did not want to do him any harm. He leaned towards the wolf cub and began humming a lullaby, known from his ancestors. The pain was knocking him to the ground, helpless, but listening to Zamfira’s soothing song, he calmed his breath and sighed resignedly, realizing that the girl only wanted to help him.

He lifts it carefully in his arms, the wolf snarls, but does not jump to bite the girl. She carefully carried him up to the top, on her back, and there, she started removing the bullets from his leg, cleaned the wound and bandaged it nicely. Then he slept comfortably in the dining room, and the wolf cub fell asleep immediately. It is said that Zamfira took care of him like this for a long time, until winter came. In the end, the wolf got well, and on a sunny day, he got up and walked on his feet again. Limping, he took longer and longer walks every day, ate well and then slept. So, the winter months passed, and in the spring, the chicken that had been born by now, a big hound, came to Zamfira and kissed her hand, as a sign of thanks, but also of goodbye. Spring came, he had recovered and was returning to his pack.

Zamfira, happy that she had managed to help him, just smiled, then returned to her still, because she had a new recipe in mind and didn’t want to lose it.