Ignacio stubs the cigarillo out and slides it back behind one ear. He presses himself off the wall and holds out a hand to Gabriel.

"Eh, they were pub grub, but everything's better with sour cream, diced tomatoes and bacon. I never gave you my name. Ignacio."

And Gabe sounds positively deflated, and Ignacio wonders why. More than he's wondered about anything in a long time. He's not sure what makes him care so much, except that he thinks he's heard that tone of voice before. In a different accent.