That's assuming the sizzling hasn't gotten under his skin. Already, Roadhog's been assaulted by the mental image of all that food covered in perfect grill lines. Added to that, the smell only makes it more vivid. His mask was designed not to let a single wisp of hogdrogen go to waste; it didn't serve the purpose of filtering out fine particles.

"Good," Roadhog grunts, trying not to seem distracted. "Done bein' the pack mule."

He rubs his shoulders, scratching at all the places he couldn't throughout the evening, and as he quickly runs out of useful things to do with the odd, restless energy gradually coming out to play, Hog ends up sinking further down to lie face up on the ground, one arm slung behind his head so at the very least he'll stop looking at the loaded grill.

Food's not like people. He can't stare it down to make it do what he wants faster.