"I suppose," he says in a voice of supreme irritation, both arms and eyebrows crossed, "it would only encourage you to be informed that this man," his chin points at Rodolphus, "can out-drink a polar bear who's trained on fermented seal carcasses. And you are, incidentally paying for your own anti-hangover tea. Speaking of tea. As for the hat, as far as I can make out, he thinks he's the equivalent of a squib. Or a fairy godmother. He has a wand with a star on it, and if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm now going to go find something with which to wash this sentence out of my mouth."
He gets up and stalks up to the bar, coming back a few minutes later sipping a tall ginger wine, whisky, and limeade mix on ice, looking rather less cranky as it cools him down (and not at all because he's found something interesting to drink that doesn't have bits of fruit floating in it, oh no). "I don't know why they call this place a pub," he comments, sitting down. "There's a whole display cabinet of pastry and sandwiches across from the bar; I don't think I saw that when we were here before."