Oui

The sign outside reads quite clearly, "French Bakery." If any doubt remains, a French flag is posted up above the letters.

I have driven by this bakery several times in the past few months on my way to the Bear's Gymboree class. Each time my thoughts stray directly to the mirage of a foamy rich latte and the flakey sweetness of a marzipan croissant. This week, my mother accompanied the Bear to class and I was gifted with fifteen free minutes. I strolled down towards the bakery with Cubby, describing in thorough detail, the joy of lavender macaroons and raspberry tarts. I promised him that once his teeth came in, I would introduce him to the baguette and a lifelong friendship would ensue.

We walked through the doors of the bakery, a small bell announcing our entrance with a satisfying chime. I had hoped to finish my BSF lesson for the week while sipping my highly anticipated latte, but I was in for a disappointment! I discovered upon walking in, an alarming absence of tables and chairs. Bummer. I shrugged this inconvenience off and moved to the glass counter with Cubby. The expected ganache cakes and glazed fruit tarts filled the cases. Before I could peek in for a close examination of the offerings, a small, dark-haired woman emerged from the back of the store wearing a black beret and a large white apron. I smiled at her and asked what kind of croissants they had. She stared at me with a blank expression on her face.

"Que?"

Not "quoi" but "que."

Hmm. I repeated my question in spanish, but with very little luck. This French Bakery had no croissants, in fact this French Bakery seemed unaware of the croissant's existence.

Latte? Nope.

Baguette? Nope.

Macroons? Dream on, sister.

She looked at me as if I were making things up, as if I had wandered into her store with the cruel intent of demanding dippernegging fifferfegs.

"What can you recommend?" I finally asked.

She pointed over to the largest glass case. I peered in and quickly realized that a mountain of Cuban treats crowded every tray in the display. Croquettas, pastelitos de guayaba, cangrejos, empanadas de carne y queso, pan de gloria, etc.

I looked up with a confused smile and asked if they had any french food in the store. She nodded and pointed to the last case, which was filled with cakes and tarts. She started describing them and I quickly realized that they were bastardized versions of french delicacies. Fruit tarts made with tropical fruit, chocolate ganache cakes stuffed with dulce de leche, eclairs laced with guayaba.

I ordered two pastelitos de guayaba and made my way to the door. With one last look at the giant Eiffel Tower stenciled on the back wall, Cubby and I departed the "French Bakery" under a cloud of confusion and disappointment and a latte sized hole in my stomach.

Why call yourself a French Bakery when you only sell Cuban food? Cast off your flag and your title and step into the light! Be proud of those pastelitos! They were pretty good. Maybe you can fill in the Eiffel Tower and add a few green leaves for a more truthful Caribbean look. Pick a favorite relative and splash their name up there. Carmelita would love having a bakery in Kendall named after her, I promise!

For the last week I have been walking around with a smile plastered on my face. More false advertising. I'm still sad. I feel the loss of that tiny life quite keenly. People usually say, "Life goes on" or "It just wasn't meant to be." I feel that my baby's life, no matter how short, was meant to be. I honor that life by mourning it and not ignoring it. I honor it by not moving on quickly or rushing to the next thing in life. It is a bittersweet honor, but I uphold it just the same, even under the guise of a smile.