Skillet Moon at Onyx & Honey

Keisha’s phone buzzed at 6:02 p.m., the precise minute she always pretended wasn’t a deadline.

JONAH: I found it. The restaurant with the unhinged menu. You owe me emotional damages and fries.

Keisha blinked at her screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard like they were deciding whether to enter a boxing ring.

KEISHA: “Unhinged” is subjective. “Unhinged” is also my brand. Address?

JONAH: Onyx & Honey. New place on Ashford. Bring your tastebuds and your therapist.

Keisha sat up on her couch, nudging aside the notebook she’d been using to draft a review of a café that served “deconstructed oatmeal” (which, in her opinion, was just… oats placed in separate emotional states). She reached for her denim jacket, the one with a little enamel pin shaped like a fork that said Bite Me.

Her review persona was anonymous. Online, she was MidnightPalate, a “local food writer” with “strong opinions” and “a tragic weakness for biscuits.” In real life, she was a twenty-seven-year-old Black woman with student loans and an uncanny ability to taste when something had been cooked in a pan that previously made fish.

And Jonah was her best friend, her occasional photographer, and her personal warning label.

Ten minutes later, he slid into the passenger seat of Keisha’s car wearing a pastel jumper that looked like it had been knitted from sunshine and bad decisions.

“Tell me,” Keisha said as she pulled onto the road, “what you mean by ‘unhinged menu.’”

Jonah tapped his phone, then held it up like he was presenting evidence in court. “They write their menu items… in poetry.”

Keisha squinted at the screen. “That’s not unhinged. That’s… mildly pretentious.”

“It’s haiku,” Jonah said solemnly, as if he was announcing a royal decree. “A whole menu of haiku.”

Keisha’s mouth twisted. “Okay. That’s a little unhinged.”

Jonah nodded, satisfied. “And they have a dish called Midnight Cornbread. You will want it. I feel it in my bones.”

“My bones are currently occupied with scepticism,” Keisha said, but her stomach did an interested little flip. Midnight anything was her weakness. Midnight pancakes, midnight dumplings, midnight snack that was technically a full meal but you ate it over the sink like a raccoon with standards.

They turned onto Ashford and immediately saw it: a narrow brick building with warm light spilling through tall windows. The sign said ONYX & HONEY in clean gold lettering, and there was a line outside that looked equal parts hungry and smug.

“Nothing says ‘new restaurant’ like a queue of people who enjoy waiting,” Jonah muttered.

“Nothing says ‘new restaurant’ like people who were already waiting before the restaurant existed,” Keisha replied.

They joined the line anyway.

Inside, Onyx & Honey felt like someone had tried to bottle comfort and pour it into a room. Dark wood, soft amber lights, plants that looked expensive enough to have their own dental insurance. The air smelled like caramelised onions and something smoky, sweet, and deeply persuasive.

A host with a bright smile seated them at a small table by the window. The menus were printed on thick paper, and each dish was indeed a haiku.

Keisha read the first one aloud, because she couldn’t help herself.

“‘Fried chicken whispers / Honey waits with quiet heat / Sunday on your tongue.’”

Jonah pressed a hand to his chest. “That is either beautiful or a threat.”

Keisha flipped the page. “Listen to this. ‘Collards slow-cooked down / Green velvet with vinegar / Auntie’s sharp blessing.’”

Jonah’s eyes widened. “Okay. I hate that I’m impressed.”

Keisha scanned the drinks. “‘Lemon bites, mint laughs / Ice clinks like small bright secrets / Summer in a jar.’ That’s… a lemonade.”

“It’s poetry lemonade,” Jonah said, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Find the midnight cornbread.”

Keisha’s eyes snagged on it like a hook.

MIDNIGHT CORNBREAD

Skillet moon, crust sings

Sweet heat hiding under gold

Night insists on more

Keisha frowned thoughtfully. “Sweet heat hiding under gold.”

Jonah’s grin was wicked. “A metaphor. For you, probably.”

Keisha ignored him, mostly because it was true.

They ordered: the fried chicken, collards, shrimp and grits (described as “river pearls in cream”), and the Midnight Cornbread. Jonah insisted on adding “the mac that ‘wears a cheese crown.’” Keisha told him he needed to stop letting the menu flirt with him.

When the food arrived, it did so with the confidence of something that knew it was about to be photographed.

Jonah lifted his phone immediately. “Lighting check. Angles. Emotional readiness.”

Keisha watched him arrange a spoon like it was a prop in a play. “You know this is going on my blog, not Vogue.”

“Your blog has standards,” Jonah said. “The people deserve crumbs with narrative.”

The fried chicken was crisp, glossy, and smelled like pepper and patience. The collards were dark and silky, tangy with vinegar and just enough heat to make you sit up straighter. The shrimp and grits were rich and comforting, with a smoky undertone that tasted like someone’s uncle had opinions and a grill.

And then there was the cornbread.

It came in a small cast-iron skillet, the top a deep golden brown, edges crisped into a halo. A square of butter melted into the centre like it had been born there. A drizzle of honey glinted across the surface, but there was something else, something darker, hiding in the sheen.

Keisha took a bite.

First: sweetness. Warm corn, honey, butter.

Then: heat. Not a slap, not a dare. A slow blooming warmth that crept up like gossip, like laughter you were trying to hold in during a serious moment. It built, and it built, and then it settled into this delicious, steady hum.

She swallowed and exhaled softly. “Oh.”

Jonah stared at her. “That’s the sound you make when you’re either in love or about to fight someone.”

Keisha took another bite, eyes narrowing. “There’s spice. But it’s not just cayenne. There’s something… smoky. And something… almost chocolatey?”

Jonah blinked. “Chocolate in cornbread?”

Keisha pointed her fork at him. “Don’t be dramatic. I said almost chocolatey. Like… toasted. Like browned butter and… maybe molasses?”

Jonah dipped a corner into the honey pooled in the skillet. “It’s sweet and spicy. It’s like cornbread went to therapy and came back with boundaries.”

Keisha chewed slowly, her brain clicking through possibilities like a combination lock.

She was already writing the review in her head.

Back home that night, Keisha sat at her kitchen table with her notebook open, a half-eaten takeaway box beside her like a loyal witness. Jonah had gone home with a promise to send photos “once he colour-corrected them into honesty.”

Keisha wrote a title: Onyx & Honey: Haiku, Heat, and the Cornbread That Ruined My Personality.

She paused, pen hovering.

Her reviews were honest. Sometimes painfully so. She’d praised tiny diners for their perfect pancakes and dragged upscale restaurants for serving three peas on a plate like it was a moral lesson. She’d made enemies. She’d made friends. She’d once received an email that simply said, “Stop. You’re hurting my feelings,” from a bakery she’d called “a sugar-scented disappointment.”

But Onyx & Honey…

It had her.

The Midnight Cornbread wasn’t just good. It was the kind of good that made you want to understand it. Like a song with a hidden harmony. Like a joke you laughed at twice because the second time you caught what was really being said.

Keisha tapped her pen against her teeth.

She could write a glowing review and move on.

Or she could do what she always did when food got under her skin:

She could try to recreate it.

It wasn’t about stealing. It was about learning. Paying attention. Holding flavour up to the light and seeing what made it shine.

She flipped to a fresh page and wrote:

MISSION: MIDNIGHT CORNBREAD

CLUES: sweet + slow heat + smoky + “almost chocolate” + honey glaze

SUSPECTS: browned butter, molasses, smoked paprika, chipotle, cocoa powder? coffee? black pepper?

She texted Jonah.

KEISHA: I’m making it. If I burn my kitchen, avenge me.

JONAH: I will write your eulogy in haiku.

“Of course you will,” Keisha muttered, already pulling out her laptop to make a grocery list.

Grocery List: Midnight Cornbread Investigation 🧺

Dry

Cornmeal (medium grind)

Plain flour

Baking powder

Bicarb soda

Salt

Brown sugar

Smoked paprika

Ground chipotle (or cayenne)

Unsweetened cocoa powder (small tin)

Ground cinnamon (optional, just a pinch)

Wet

Eggs

Buttermilk (or milk + lemon if you’re improvising)

Unsalted butter

Honey

Molasses (or treacle, if that’s what your pantry offers)

Corn kernels (fresh, frozen, or tinned, drained)

Extras

Jalapeño (optional)

Cheddar (optional, but tempting)

Cast-iron skillet (if you have one; otherwise a baking tin)

Keisha stared at the list, then added one more thing at the bottom:

Confidence (aisle unknown)

The next day, she went to the supermarket armed with her list and the kind of determination usually reserved for people assembling flat-pack furniture without instructions.

In the spice aisle, she stood between smoked paprika and chipotle powder like she was choosing between two personalities.

An older woman nearby glanced at her basket. “You making something special?”

Keisha smiled politely. “Cornbread.”

The woman’s eyebrows lifted. “Cornbread is always special, honey.”

Keisha laughed, because it was the exact kind of auntie wisdom that felt like a blessing and a warning. “I’m trying to recreate this cornbread I had. It was sweet, but also spicy. Like it had secrets.”

“Everything good has secrets,” the woman said, then leaned closer. “Try a touch of molasses. People forget molasses. Molasses remembers.”

Keisha blinked. “That’s… ominous.”

The woman winked and rolled her trolley away.

Keisha added molasses to her basket like she’d been given a prophecy.

That evening, Jonah arrived with a tote bag full of “emotional support snacks” and a camera, because he couldn’t resist documenting culinary chaos.

He perched on a stool at Keisha’s kitchen counter. “So. We’re reverse-engineering the moon bread.”

“It’s cornbread,” Keisha corrected, tying her hair back. “Don’t let the haiku infect you.”

Jonah pouted. “Skillet moon, crust sings.”

Keisha pointed a wooden spoon at him. “One more line and I’m charging you rent.”

She preheated the oven and slid her cast-iron skillet inside to heat up. The kitchen warmed, smelling faintly of old garlic and future glory.

“Okay,” Keisha said, pulling out ingredients. “This is my best guess. We’ll do a sweet base, then build the heat slow. None of that punch-you-in-the-face spice.”

Jonah nodded sagely. “We want spice that texts first.”

Keisha ignored him. She always ignored him right before laughing.

Recipe: Midnight Cornbread (Keisha’s “Close Enough to Argue” Version)

Makes: 8–10 slices

Time: ~45 minutes

Skill Level: Confident beginner, or brave chaos goblin

Ingredients

1 cup cornmeal

1 cup plain flour

1 tbsp baking powder

1/2 tsp bicarb soda

1 tsp salt

1/3 cup brown sugar

1 tsp smoked paprika

1/2 tsp ground chipotle (or 1/4 tsp cayenne for gentler heat)

1 tsp unsweetened cocoa powder

(Optional) pinch of cinnamon

2 large eggs

1 1/2 cups buttermilk

1/3 cup melted unsalted butter (plus 1 tbsp extra for the skillet)

2 tbsp molasses (or treacle)

1/2 cup corn kernels (optional, but joyful)

Honey “Midnight” Glaze

3 tbsp honey

1 tsp molasses

Pinch of smoked paprika

Tiny pinch of salt

Method

Heat the skillet: Preheat oven to 200°C. Put your cast-iron skillet in the oven for 10 minutes. (If using a baking tin, lightly grease it instead.)

Mix dry ingredients: In a bowl, whisk together cornmeal, flour, baking powder, bicarb, salt, brown sugar, smoked paprika, chipotle, cocoa, and cinnamon if using.

Mix wet ingredients: In another bowl, whisk eggs, buttermilk, melted butter, and molasses until smooth.

Combine: Pour wet into dry. Stir until just combined. Fold in corn kernels if using. Do not overmix unless you enjoy regret.

Bake: Carefully remove the hot skillet. Add 1 tbsp butter and swirl until melted. Pour in batter (it should sizzle a little, like it’s excited). Bake 20–25 minutes, until golden and a toothpick comes out mostly clean.

Glaze: While it bakes, warm honey, molasses, smoked paprika, and salt in a small pan for 30–60 seconds. Brush over cornbread as soon as it comes out of the oven.

Serve: Let cool 10 minutes. Slice. Try not to eat half of it standing up.

As the cornbread baked, the kitchen filled with a smell that made Keisha’s stomach do a small dance. Sweet corn, butter, smoke.

Jonah sniffed theatrically. “It smells like a family reunion where everyone likes each other.”

Keisha peered through the oven door. “If this works, I’m writing the review tonight.”

“If it doesn’t,” Jonah said, “I’m writing a review of your oven.”

The timer dinged.

Keisha pulled out the skillet, and the cornbread looked… promising. Golden top, crisp edges. She brushed on the honey-molasses glaze, and it shone like it was being paid to pose.

They waited the hardest ten minutes of their lives.

Then Keisha sliced a piece and handed it to Jonah.

He took a bite, chewed, and his eyes widened. “Oh. That’s… that’s close.”

Keisha took her own bite.

Sweet. Butter. Honey.

Heat, slow and steady.

And that smoky, dark note underneath, like the flavour had a bass line.

She exhaled, grinning despite herself. “It’s not exact.”

Jonah swallowed and pointed at her with his cornbread like it was a microphone. “But it’s good. It’s ‘invite me over again’ good.”

Keisha leaned back against the counter, satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with winning. “I think Onyx & Honey uses something a bit deeper. Maybe they toast the cornmeal in butter first. Or they use a darker syrup.”

Jonah licked honey from his thumb. “Or it’s magic.”

Keisha laughed. “It’s not magic. It’s technique.”

“Technique is just magic with a resume,” Jonah said.

Keisha looked at the skillet, at the cornbread she’d made with her own hands, and felt something soften in her chest. Not just pride. Something warmer.

Food wasn’t only about the perfect bite. It was about the attempt. The sharing. The way Jonah was already reaching for a second piece like he was protecting it from the universe.

She opened her notebook again and began to write, not just about the restaurant, but about the feeling.

Restaurant Review Excerpt: Onyx & Honey (Draft)

Onyx & Honey doesn’t just serve comfort food. It serves a reminder: comfort can be sharp, smoky, sweet, and still kind. The haiku menu could have been a gimmick. Instead, it reads like the kitchen actually means it. The collards carry vinegar like a truth-teller. The fried chicken crackles with confidence. And the Midnight Cornbread… listen, I have eaten cornbread in parking lots, at weddings, at aunties’ houses where you do not question the seasoning. This cornbread belongs in that sacred lineage. It starts sweet, then the heat arrives slowly, like a story you didn’t realise you needed. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to call someone and say, “Are you free? I found something worth sharing.”

Keisha paused, pen resting on the page.

Jonah crunched another bite. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you look like you’re about to cry, but you’re pretending it’s just spices.”

Keisha rolled her eyes. “I’m not about to cry.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Keisha, you’re literally writing about cornbread like it’s a life event.”

Keisha tapped her pen once, then twice. “Maybe it is.”

Jonah’s grin softened. “Okay. Write it like that.”

Keisha wrote again, and the words came easier now.

Because the truth was: she could spend her whole life chasing the exact secret ingredient.

Or she could savour the fact that someone had made something beautiful enough to chase in the first place.

She looked up at Jonah, who was happily demolishing a slice of cornbread like it owed him money.

“Hey,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Next time we go, we’re bringing two friends. Or three. We’re making it a thing.”

Jonah’s face lit up like a candle catching. “A cornbread pilgrimage.”

“A dinner,” Keisha corrected.

“A pilgrimage,” Jonah insisted, and then, because he could never leave well enough alone, he recited:

“Friends in amber light / Cornbread, honey, heat, and laughs / Night insists on more.”

Keisha threw a tea towel at him.

He caught it, laughing, honey on his smile.

And Keisha, despite everything, felt like the night had insisted on the right kind of “more.”