Oh hell yes, his specialty. Zhao grins, and sloshes his way over to the commercial refrigerator against the back wall. "Coming right up," he remembers to say, a touch belatedly, as he plucks the necessary ingredients out and tosses them onto the counter. He washes the rice first, since it'll take the longest to cook, but moves on quickly to shelling the shrimp once he's got a small pot of it on the stove. No point in breaking out the industrial sized rice cooker for just two people.

He also, very kindly, doesn't say anything about Majima's less than graceful clamber onto the stool. Hopefully the curtesy is returned, what with the clumsy, slow cuts he's making, and the way the shrimp seem to keep escaping his slippery fingers like they're alive. Minor details, all. "The bartender sure was pouring heavy tonight, huh?" he asks, having caught onto at least a little bit of the weird tension between their newest old guard friends and the mysterious man who has been mostly silently pouring them drinks for the past couple years (and occasionally helping Kasuga and Kiryu be nosy busybodies in their friend's lives.) "Generous of him, don't you think?" He should really not be fishing for details now, when there's no way he's going to remember them in the morning, but alas.

He moves on from the shrimp, and plucks a few red chilis out of their container, before eyeing Majima again over the tops of his tinted sunglasses (which have slid a bit down his nose.) "How hot can you handle, Majima-san?" He wiggles his eyebrows as he asks, because he's incorrigible.