"A lost cause, I'm afraid." He sighed as if it were a great shame, giving his beer a sad swirl, before continuing in the same somber tone. "A good dinner is one we've killed, preferably earlier in the morning. I doubt the romance would survive even the cleanest field dressing. Your shirt certainly wouldn't." He didn't take Legolas to be vain, but even the most extreme of survivalists found gutting a caribou to be a messy task. Decades later, and the smell bothered even him.

He couldn't help but chuckle at Legolas' reaction, knowing that his ribbing would be perfectly returned in kind. Some things he could always count on, and easy banter was one of those rare things. It was a new skill for him and he could never meet it with the same fluidity, but it was nice to flex the skill every now and then, just to see how far he could push.

At the mention of Quebecois, he made a noise as he drank, wondering how to describe how it differed from plain continental French. "It's not so different," He said finally, finishing his drink. "We understand French perfectly, it's the French who struggle with our language." He motioned for a second drink, and told the bartender to bring him another beer, along with a bottle of whiskey. "We care far less for manners, unless we're speaking to our grand-mère. Your grasp on French is good, all you've truly left to learn is our colloquialisms. Lâche pas la patate, you're a quick study. Worst case, you can always ask us to speak English."

Asking for English, the ultimate sign of giving up. It was self deprecating in a way; he'd given up ages ago trying to pick up whatever form of Sindarin Legolas knew.