Kaz lets the conversation they're holding with one another wash over him, background noise since he's not addressed in it. He instead focuses on the tasks at hand to make the pasta and the sauce, easily committing it all to memory. Not just the steps, but the time taken between each one and the precise consistency desired for the ingredients. By the end of the cooking process he's finished his whiskey, and rinses out the glass since he knows they'll be having wine with dinner.

His leg is aching a little from standing so much, but not too badly. He helps set the table and carry out the dishes, fetching the wine and pouring some in glasses. Wine is another thing he doesn't know terribly much about with regards to taste, but he knows what labels are fancy and what good prices are for each. The business side of booze he gets, even if his particular palate isn't refined to distinguish once the liquor hits hits his tongue.

Retrieving his cane, he hooks it on his chair and settles into the meal to come. It looks good if he says so himself, to himself. Not a man who when left to his own devices cares about preamble or toasting, he just starts to eat. Giving a little nod after, he proclaims, "It's fine. Certainly not poison." What other compliment would one need?