I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.

I don't think I've ever drunk champagne before breakfast before. With breakfast on several occasions, but never before before.

Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert… Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music… All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.

You can get used to eating breakfast with a man in a fedora. You can get used to anything, my mother was in the habit of saying.

The early morning is too strong to drink straight, so I need to mix in a little coffee to be able to hold it down.

Breakfast was, on the whole, a leisurely and silent meal, for no member of the family was very talkative at that hour. By the end of the meal the influence of the coffee, toast, and eggs made itself felt, and we started to revive, to tell each other what we intended to do, why we intended to do it, and then argue earnestly as to whether each had made a wise decision.

There has ling been a happy symbiotic relationship between kitchen and bar. Simply put, the kitchen wants booze, and the bartender wants food.

Either grab a drink and sit down with us or get the fuck out of here.

Now is the time to drink!

I was tempted to get up and run over to the bell that would end my torture — if you ring this bell, you’re taken in for coffee and a doughnut.

One should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast.

Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.

Hoping to get a head start on the next day, I eat breakfast the night before. That way I can sleep in until two in the afternoon.

My wife and I tried to breakfast together, but we had to stop or our marriage would have been wrecked.