Zinzie didn't argue. He began wolfing down the porridge as if it were the greatest meal on the planet. His table manners were sure nothing to write home about. When his bowl was empty and scraped clean, he leaned back in his chair again. His stomach actually felt full. It was uncomfortable almost. But he was much happier now than before. 

Zinzie reached up to scratch his head, only to be reminded that it was caked with dried mud. He was filthy. Zinzie wasn't a neat freak by any means of the word, but he enjoyed feeling clean now and then. 
"Do you think they offer baths here?" He asked. He knew that, during his travels, taverns were a good place to stop, get supplies, and wash up. Many had some sort of inn attached to them, with a bathhouse. A nice, warm bath sounded pretty good to the beaten man.