"I dunno..."

For the second, it's hard to tell if Vincent is about to talk about the homemade fries or the missing basket. Whatever the rest of his sentence was going to be, he never gets there. He thinks for a moment, racking his brain for some memory of a sound that will clue him in. Perhaps it's a sign that the alcohol is starting to kick in again that it takes him so long to remember a particular punctuated slide from earlier.

Once he remembers, he reaches gracelessly over the table to feel around directly in front of Irahl. Thankfully he finds the mound of fries before he has a chance to dunk his fingers into Irahl's ice-water glass or something.

"Ah-ha...!" He declares, grabbing a small handful (it would probably be a substantial number of fries for a normal person, but his hands are huge). He will not drag the basket closer. He goes back into his space. This works fine for him. He looks a little smug about it, actually.

"Now listen," he then starts to explain, emboldened by his fry acquisition, "You're describin' a dumplin'. That ain't a fry anymore."