The general fare available to a Belter contraband runner can't generally be considered 'cuisine' by any measure so Ashford can't exactly be picky. He's downed more things did not know the contents of than he'd like to count, however he might have to draw the line at a clump of deep fried moss.

Though when he hears Rosinante's voice he pauses, gaze shifting over to consider the giant beanpole of a being.

"Be my guest," He says flatly, holding the moss ball in Rosinante's direction while seemingly trying to kill him with a dark glare.