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  • Writer's pictureThe Pie Iron Maiden

Holly’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s Camp Pie

From the desk of Miss Holiday Golightly


Dearest Fred,


Please don't be angry with me for not writing to you for so long, Darling. It was beastly of me to neglect you like this. How's Cat? I imagine him curled on your lap, listening to you read your sweet little stories. Have you written anything about me yet? I hope so. I was très drôle back when you knew me; these days, I'm a gruesome bore. The Señor is still around. Of course, I'm mad about him (this one likes baseball, not horses). My Spanish has become muy bueno.


I mustn't forget the reason I'm writing. Would you believe I finally had my breakfast at Tiffany's? The Señor organized the whole thing. I'm terribly sorry I didn't tell you when I was in New York. I'm sure you understand, Darling. Anyways, they set up a sweet table for one right in the front window on Fifth Avenue. The store was as quiet as a church and smelled like leather and silver polish. A funny little man in white gloves, who reminded me a bit of you, Buster, set a silver platter in front of me with the most divine curiosities. You know me, I could survive for a month on apples and whiskey alone. But I'll tell you, Cookie, it's as if I've been saving my whole life for this one meal. I was simply ravenous.


The platter was like a work of art. Resting on a bed of greens (I usually never eat green things, but these were quite pretty) was a round golden pastry. On top of the pastry was a perfectly sweet poached egg the shape of a drop pearl, and next to that some jam that looked like a pile of tiny garnets. The pastry was filled with mushrooms and très décadent French brie. When I cut into the whole thing, it was comme de l'or liquid, like liquid gold, just for me. I'll tell you a secret, Darling, cross your heart and kiss your elbow that you won't tell a soul; I could eat this meal three times a day for the rest of my life and be a happy woman- I don't think I would ever have the mean reds again.



I'm sure you think I've gone dotty. Maybe I have, Fred, but I've finally had my breakfast at Tiffany's, so I'll die dotty and satisfied.


Mille Tendresse,




PIETRACK







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