Honey Salone: Honey, Cheese, and a Mild State of Panic

 

That day started deceptively well, which in hindsight always feels like a warning.

It was just the three of us at first, Nirwana, her sister Wani, and me, sitting at Kopenhagen Coffee in Bangsar over breakfast, squeezed around a table that suddenly felt too small for the amount of talking and laughing happening, the kind of laughter that keeps building on itself for no real reason, fueled by unnamed jokes that made absolutely no sense but somehow became funnier every time we tried to stop.

By the time we finished eating, we were already a little loud, a little giddy, and riding that dangerous high where everything feels possible and you momentarily forget that you are, in fact, about to host something in public.

We walked back home still talking, still laughing, and then reality quietly tapped us on the shoulder.

We split to get things done, with me heading home to pull myself together, Nirwana going to get her hair done because explaining wild jungle bees while slowly realising your hair has expanded into a full lion’s mane is not a situation anyone deserves, non, we agreed that would not be the story of the day, while Wani stayed steady and calm in a way that felt both reassuring and mildly suspicious.

When Nirwana came back with her hair transformed and under control, the calm lasted exactly three minutes, before we launched into frantic preparation mode, packing jars, boards, spoons, glasses, labels, tools, and things we were suddenly convinced we would need, with Wani quietly rescuing us multiple times while we hovered and second-guessed everything.

We arrived at the venue forty five minutes early, feeling organised and proud, only to discover that the counter space we had mentally planned and rehearsed for days had already been taken, which was one of those moments where your heart drops for half a second before you’re forced to think quickly, and instead we were pointed to a long twelve foot table, dramatic, intimidating, and far more serious than we felt prepared for.

So we unpacked anyway.

Jars came out. Boards were laid down. Honey caught the light in that way that makes you believe things will be fine. Guests had already started arriving, which immediately raised the stakes, and Nirwana shifted into her element, introducing herself, sharing how Eat Honey Pretty began, why Honey Salone exists, and how this was never meant to be a lesson but a conversation, which made sense because she didn’t stop talking, entertaining, explaining, and connecting, all at once.

She spoke about wild bee honey with pride, about the jungle, about harvesting with the honey hunter team, about standing beneath towering Tualang trees and working in conditions that don’t allow for ego or hesitation, and you could feel the room lean in, people listening more closely, tasting more slowly, asking better questions.

We moved into pairings, honey with cheese, which immediately felt right, then chocolate truffles, which caused a series of very satisfying reactions, eyes widening, small laughs, pauses mid-chew when the honey burst through the dark chocolate and then settled back into something rich and grounding.

Then we introduced our new single blossom honey with mini peanut butter and coffee blossom honey, indulgent and comforting in a way that made people stop talking for a moment.

And then came the fizzy Tualang.

This is where the drama peaked.

Nirwana, fully committed to the moment, began shaking, pouring, and explaining with great confidence, Bachata music playing in the background, determined to show off her mixology skills, and while the process looked impressive, the first sips prompted a few raised eyebrows, slow reassessments, and expressions that said, I did not expect that, followed almost immediately by another sip.

It was bold. It was playful. It was not safe.

Which felt exactly right.

As the afternoon stretched on, the room softened, guests slowly filtered out, lingering longer than expected, and by the time we started packing up, the table looked beautifully used, our voices were a little hoarse, and we felt that specific kind of exhaustion that comes from holding space rather than just hosting.

We were full, not from the honey, but from the warmth of it all, the chaos, the laughter, the near-misses, the moments that almost went wrong but didn’t.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was better than that.

And walking away, we knew one thing for sure.

This is exactly how Honey Salone is meant to feel.