Hercule Poirot stepped out of the restaurant The Old Granny of Soho. He raised the collar of his coat more out of caution than necessity, as the night was mild. "But at my age... you don't take risks," Poirot would say. His eyes reflected a drowsy pleasure. The snails at Granny’s were exquisite. A tremendous discovery, this small, cheap restaurant. Thoughtfully, like a well-fed dog, Hercule Poirot licked his lips in a circular motion. Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his ample mustache. Yes, he had dined well… And now, what? A taxi, passing by, slowed down enticingly. Poirot hesitated for a moment but did not raise his hand. Why take a taxi? Anyway, when he got home, it would still be too early for sleep. "Unfortunately," Poirot murmured to his mustache, "a man can only eat three times a day…" Because he had never gotten used to the meal that accompanied afternoon tea. "If you dine at five, it’s impossible," he explained, "to approach dinner with the proper amount of eager gastric juices. And dinner, I remind you, is the main meal of the day!
Nor did the ten o'clock coffee suit him. No – chocolate and croissants for breakfast, lunch at twelve thirty if possible, but definitely not after one, and finally, the highlight: dinner! These were the peak periods during Hercule Poirot’s day. A man who had always taken his stomach seriously was reaping the rewards in his mature years. Food was no longer merely a physical pleasure but also an intellectual pursuit. Because, between meals, he spent quite some time researching and recording potential sources of new and delicious foods. The Old Granny was a product of one of these quests, and the restaurant had just received Hercule Poirot’s seal of gastronomic approval. But now, unfortunately, he had to get through the night as well.