[Her look will be met with the utmost obliviousness. He's well practiced. Never mind that he could pass for a native of this town, right down to the right-parted hairstyle (haphazard though it was) and the day clothes, he'd never quite been straight enough to dislike Jazz and the ilk it had spawned. It was almost as if the Deerington folk could smell it on him, and that's enough to give him the heebie jeebies. So instead he mourns the cup of frozen, buttered lobster.] Shows how much you know.

[One step above of sticking his tongue out at his personal walking cane; hmm. Should tone that down.

He sighs, long-suffering (and it can't be pleasant when his one goal in life is to drink his liver into submission).] Maine coast lobster is a wonder of this world. There's been-- wars fought over its splendor.

Our salmon's pretty good, too. Brook trout. Rainbow trout. Brown trout. Lake trout. Perch. Mackerel. Bluefish. [...he's floundering.] I'm floundering. [He blinks back resolve, and moves to remove himself from his present company. You're welcome.] I'm Hawkeye. And you are?