With the kind of deep breath that might precipitate a laugh, Benedict pauses, then lets it die on his lips; his expression is frozen in thought. He's obviously thought about the answer to this question before, but never had to say it aloud.

"I miss it," he admits, "perhaps that's an unpopular sentiment. But what's being done to it, what's-- been done for years," he narrows his eyes thoughtfully, "it's a bit like, I don't know, learning your favorite pastry has always been made from insects. It's corrupted."