Hannibal: Bâtard-Montrachet and tartufi bianchi.
Alana: How I found you in Florence.
Hannibal: Betrayed by good taste. Is good taste itching at you in your daily rounds of institutional life?
Alana: An itch easy enough to scratch when there's cause to celebrate. Congratulations, Hannibal. You're officially insane.
Hannibal: There's no consensus in the psychiatric community what I should be termed.
Alana: You've long been regarded by your peers in psychiatry as something entirely Other. For convenience, they term you a monster.
Hannibal: What do you term me?
Alana: I don't. You defy categorisation.
Hannibal: Do you still prefer beer to wine?
Alana: I stopped drinking beer when I found out what you were putting in mine.
Hannibal: "Who."
Alana: "Who."
Alana: This means you'll be spared the federal death sentence. They had enough to convict you a dozen times over.
Hannibal: A baker's dozen, lest we forget Mason Verger. You're welcome.
Alana: You're welcome, Hannibal. The needle was guaranteed, but you beat it all on an insanity plea.
Hannibal: I'm not insane.
Alana: You know that and I know that. A dozen or a baker's dozen, enough people have died.
Hannibal: You haven't.
Alana: A promise in waiting, isn't it? A promise you intend to keep.
Hannibal: I always keep my promises.