"That's a squab, you unutterable squandering of epidermis," he says absently, more in weariness than anger, poking gloomily at his fruit, thoroughly depressed by the entire encounter, and particularly by the man's failure to start going ribbit. "What," he demands rhetorically, "is the point." Taking out his wand, he points it in turn at the rice soup and fruit (putting the egg to one side first), and says, "Desssicos. Calio." He tips the now-cooked fruit into the significantly drier rice, and stirs with an air of dreary resignation.