Every day of Miro’s childhood was marked by a cake on the kitchen table, all of them made by his mother. Hani was Miro’s special name for his mother, an endearment only he called her by. Hani’s cakes were so famous, she quickly became the unofficial maker of all birthday cakes in the small town they lived in. Part of it was that his mother adored sweet things herself. Baking was an escape, a moment of joy and reprieve amidst a hard day’s work on the family farm. It had been Hani’s dream to open a bakery of her own, but a geopolitical war and an unexpected diagnosis of terminal cancer laid waste to her plans. Miro was twenty one when his mother died. Hani’s in the East Village is his pledge to her, a silent promise fulfilled.