The Death of Lady McGinty - Agatha Christie

Hercule Poirot walked out of the Ville Grand Mer restaurant in Soho. He had rolled up the sleeves of his coat out of prudence, not necessity, for it was not very cold that night. "But at my age, one takes no risks," Poirot used to say.
His eyes reflected quiet pleasure. The escargot he had eaten at Ville Grand Mer was delicious. This dirty little restaurant was a real find. Reflectively, like a well-fed dog, Poirot moved his tongue around his lips, then drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and gently stroked his mustache.
Yes, he had a good dinner... so what?