As often happens, I find the best places on my travels not through ratings or neatly pinned maps, but by instinct. I'm always the one behind the wheel, and when my inner voice says, Turn here, I usually listen. Surprisingly enough, it's often right.
My wife and I ended up in Plužine on our way to Durmitor National Park, chasing those dramatic mountain views people buy wide-angle lenses for. We were driving from the coast, crossing the entire country, and by midday one look at my slightly tired wife told me everything: lunch first, landscapes later.
We turned into the nearest town, drove uphill, and saw a sign with a pleasantly resonant name — Zvono (Bell). The name had a nice ring to it. And we figured: if something's going to ring, let it be plates and cutlery. Add to that the sweeping view over the Piva River canyon from the hilltop, and resistance became pointless.
The restaurant itself sits just below road level, so you literally step down into lunch. Upstairs there's a guesthouse, which makes the whole place practical in the best way — you can eat, you can stay, you can do both.
Inside, there was a warm half-light and an easy kind of retro atmosphere. Photos on the walls, posters, hat-shaped lampshades, a touch of vintage without theatrical overkill. In one corner stood an old radio with a CEA Jazz Band Clock — as if it had just stopped catching a wave from 1968. The details weren't fancy, but alive — the kind you inevitably examine while waiting for your order. All together, it created the feeling that you'd come to visit an old musician friend who had also promised to feed you well.
Only while writing this post did I learn that they host live music in the evenings. Which makes perfect sense. The space feels made for it: a glass of local honey wine, a soft breeze from the canyon, a guitar somewhere in the background, people in no particular hurry. We came during the day, but even then there was a faint musical undertone in the air — somewhere in the background, soft blues played quietly. No wonder the place appears on the map as Zvono Jazz Restaurant.
When we walked in, the room was empty — we were the only guests. We were greeted calmly and warmly; English flowed easily, without stiffness. We chose a table by the open window overlooking the canyon. The first photo in this post is taken right through that window, with the restaurant's name on the glass.
The menu was generous and unapologetically Balkan: meat, fish, soups, salads, homemade drinks. But we kept it simple. A tomato salad — because in the Balkans tomatoes are good by default. And a lamb shank in mushroom sauce — because, you know, I do tend to trust my inner voice.
The salad was exactly what it should be: ripe tomatoes, green onions, olive oil, a pinch of salt — nothing more. But the lamb… Our beloved Greek restaurants, forgive us, but we had never tasted meat so tender, so soft, literally falling apart at the touch of a fork. Juicy, aromatic, deep in flavor — half a kilo of something bordering on the unreasonable, with a mushroom sauce that was the perfect accompaniment.
Even my wife — a steadfast advocate of seafood and a person who defaults to fish in any unclear situation — admitted it: this lamb was the lamb of all lambs. The standard. The benchmark. After the first bite, she simply stopped talking. For the record, that's the highest compliment she can give.
Forgive me, all hungry readers, but yes — I have this photo.
We lingered for a long time afterward. Full, relaxed, slightly softened by warmth and music, looking out over the canyon and debating the eternal questions: Greek cousine versus Balkan, seafood versus meat, simplicity versus refinement. Gradually we reached a conclusion: Balkan cousine is steadily climbing our personal ranking. Quietly. Persistently.
And then the inner voice said: Durmitor. Landscapes. And then you still have to drive back home. Fortunately, Montenegro is compact enough to cross in half a day.
We paid, offered our sincere compliments to the staff, said goodbye, and ten minutes later were winding our way up the steep serpentine road toward Durmitor. I stopped to capture that postcard view of the Piva River canyon and Plužine spread along the curve of the shore.
Interestingly, the modern town is relatively young. In the 1970s, after the construction of the dam and the creation of the Piva reservoir, old Plužine was submerged. The town was rebuilt higher up the slope, while its former version still rests beneath the water's surface.
But that's another story and perhaps a good reason to return. Or at least, for the lamb shank. And to feel once more how quietly and confidently this place — with the simple name Zvono — still rings true.
Thank you so much for reading!
