Benedict is waved over, easily enough, even if he doesn't sit just yet-- he does offer a pleased little smile toward Strange, accepting the compliment in his bearing if not verbally.

"Nor is it, the um," he pauses a moment to remember: "Atlantic?" He'd gone there, in Stark's world-- a laughable assortment of pasty bathers, horrific smells, and inexplicable, towering contraptions filled with what he could only guess were the screaming damned.