There are restaurants of all ilk, possessing personalities all their own- like the ones where the chefs come out in their whites to yuk it up with the clientele. And of course, there's the kind that have rude waitstaff as part of their schtick. I like those. I have patronized dining establishments that were true "neighborhood joints" and were gluey and comfortable, helping to define who you were and why you lived in a certain place. The examples abound.

Have you ever been to one of those family restaurants where they took the "family" part to heart? One where Mother, perhaps a daughter, and a son, were there, chatting you up with genuine kindness and interest, seemingly every day... My first job after college was at one such place. In Cambridge, MA- across from the big black wrought iron gates of Harvard Yard- was the institution known as Mr. & Mrs. Bartley's Burger Cottage. Mrs. Bartley ran the register and badgered me in her motherly way about why a guy like me with a college degree from a vaulted liberal arts college would want to work in a deadend greasy burger joint job. Meanwhile, eldest son was the master of the flattop grill.

Albuquerque has at least one such place as well. And this past week, it lost its venerable matriarch. You can read some short notes of condolences if you want to feel some of the familial nature yourselves.

My first abode in Albuquerque was the front unit of a tri-plex at the corner of Madison and Marquette, in the shadow of the Zia Tres Apt. Complex. I didn’t own a car. My world consisted of about 20 square blocks of the city. Luckily, a quick jaunt three blocks away could lead me straight to the loving arms of Loyola’s Cactus Flower Family Restaurant… with heavy emphasis on “family”. Loyola and her (only) daughter Sarah were there almost every day, greeting everyone with a smile as they walked in.

I really cannot overstate this point that it's a family restaurant, but I’m a try:

For years upon years, at least once a week my wife (then girlfriend) and I sauntered in, typically on a Sunday morning after a night of debauchery and indie rock at the smoke-filled bar of our liking—pick your poison; Fat Chance, Dingo Bar, Golden West, Time Out…

Despite our disheveled demeanor, Loyola had a way of making us feel like her adult kids, like many of the other people, young and old, that she felt a need to reach out to and to befriend. Her restaurant at Central and Jefferson was filled with a great mix of curmudgeons and hipsters, anti-government gun-toters and know-it-all grad students, junkies and cops. When I noticed that she replaced her old sign with a new one, I remarked how much I had admired it through the years, what with its cool "retro" art graphic elements. Loyola told me that it was sitting out back leaning up against the building if I wanted to take it home and keep it. I still have it in my back yard.

One time, when my father was visiting from Boston, we sat and ate our delicious chile-laden day starters, and he spied out the window an awesome transvestite prostitute & John transaction taking place across the street, where the American Inn used to be. Never was I more proud of my choice of post-college locales.

Another time, our “Sunday Four”- me, my wife, Rex Bradeen (UNM M.F.A. circa 1997) and Heather Bradeen (UNM M.D. circa 1998) met at the prescribed time- 9:30AM- and dined on our typical menu choices- Super Burrito with both chiles and whole beans for the guys (of course I also got a half order of their to-die-for biscuits and gravy on the side) and the ladies will be having (a la point number four in Damone's five-point plan) a Sarah’s Burrito with green and whole beans. As we left the restaurant, a resident of sketchville approached us in the parking lot and asked if we wanted to buy an Olympus compact camera for $10 (insert sad sack story about needing gas to get the wife and kids out of town asap). Naturally I said yes. It had film in it so when I took more pictures and got them developed (remember when people actually did this?) there were all sorts of weird photos of a non-descript neighborhood in the Northeast Heights- snow covered front yards and flower gardens.

But the restaurant was so much more than the neighborhood and the clientele.

The waitresses were and are among the most friendly of any I have encountered. There used to be a Texas drawl sporting, bee-hive wearing fast talker named Becky (evoking this), with a smile that would knock you back in your dining booth. Ever since she drifted off with the tumbleweeds, maybe circa 1999- the main two personalities that come to mind are Mary and Chela. Mary is a short, portly and jocund older woman with a heart of gold and a yen for gambling. She'll talk you up and down on her theories, strategies, methods for anything from the lottery (“you gotta take the lump sum, never the annuity”) to the finer points of Keno at Isleta. Chela is the wife of one of the cooks (the two look-alike cooks have been at the helm, ringing the ubiquitous bell since the very first time I set foot in there, in 1994) and LOVES kids. On many an occasion, she’d just pick up my then infant or toddler, Anna, and parade her around the restaurant, asking people if they could believe how cute she was.

Rex and Heather and Becky and Loyola, circa 1996.

Another young woman who recently waited tables there was doing so to help offset the cost of her education. Her name escapes me, but I do know she was also a doula in training at Presbyterian, because after the birth of our second daughter nearly two years ago, she made a point to find us in the hospital when she was on her doula shift. That’s right, a waitress from the restaurant came and visited us in the first hours after the birth of our child. That’s the type of family restaurant I’m talking about here, folks.

I have no doubt in my mind that they got their cues from Loyola.

In recent years, Loyola would visit us at our table, towards the end of the meal, and ask if the kids could "have a sucker" since they ate so well. My eldest daughter's eyes would light up as Loyola led them to the register counter, escorted her around to the back where only staff are allowed, and told her to reach in and pick her favorite color. Anna would come running back to me, “Daddy I got a Strawberry Kiwi!!!”

I read about her passing right here on Duke City Fix this past Saturday. My fellow Loyola’s loyalist, Brendan, had tried to dine there one morning last weekend, and read the handwritten note on the door. He then posted his findings as a corollary comment in a group discussion about where to get a good breakfast or lunch. As I sat on my couch, my heart sank. Even worse, as I frenetically searched the internet for info about a memorial service, I found the information I was seeking and learned that I missed the service at Our Lady of Fatima by an hour and a half. It was hard for me to regain focus again that day.

I decided then and there that when the restaurant reopened on Tuesday, I would pay Sarah my respects, give her my condolences, and have a Super Burrito with both chiles and whole beans yet another time, this time in memoriam.

Our older daughter is now in Kindergarten, so she didn’t come with us yesterday when we went to have our morning/mourning meal at about 11am. But our 21-month-old, Nola, was our necessary fresh-faced, bursting-with-life-smiling-reminder of why we're all here on this crazy rollercoaster or teacup carnival ride paying our respects at the neighborhood family restaurant. She was a joy to behold, sitting there, uttering her peacemeal sentences like "daddy, napkin, lap, too"- feasting on cottage cheese, peaches, and whole pinto beans, plus a little of my tortilla... in the dawn of her young life.

And afterwards, Sarah led her around the back of the register counter, to the glass bowl for her first ever congratulatory sucker, just like her mom had done for other children, thousands of times before.

Que Dios te bendiga, Loyola Baca.