It takes a moment for the joke inherent in what Mark has said to occur to Eduardo, which he'll blame on both what he's had to drink and the fact that he doesn't think about things like that. When it does, he's not sure if he should be amused or offended or both, his expression — visibly shocked — somewhere between the two. Mostly, though, he's just glad Mark took it as well as this, but that's neither here nor there. Touchy a subject though the chicken itself might be, the fact that they can joke about this has got to be a good sign. He'll take whatever of that he can get, regardless of how it chooses to present itself.

"I hate you," he laughs, reaching out to hit Mark in the arm, both clear signs that he does nothing of the sort. (He did, for a while, but that's the thing about hate: it's an emotion inextricably bound up with love, so close as to be almost indifferentiable, and the latter is the only one he feels now.) "No. No, I do not."