"Yeah, I'd like that." Elliot is so used to living off fried food that whatever this greasy, open-cooked smell it, it's enough like McDonalds that his body is sitting up in interest and demanding he find it and eat it, right now.

"My treat," he adds, since if they're hanging out he might as well buy it. Not that he's really totally sure how the heck currency here works but let's assumed he's managed to get his hands on some at some point. "You good with meat? Gluten?"