He scans the menu. "Steak for me, too," he says finally. The sandwich had been hours ago, and while it had barely been enough to tide him over, he hadn't wanted to ask if there was any bread left in case Holmes in his geniality dumped the entire kitchen in his lap and he ate it. "The pepper-and-mustard crusted one," he points to a good cut, "with... yes, the red braised mushrooms and asparagus. It needn't moo." He pauses. Is his stomach lying? No. "And a bread basket," he finishes firmly, and tilts an eyebrow at Rodolphus. "Unless you want me stealing all your chips."