The Family Table

By Kyle J. Hayes

Family-style food.

Most people hear that, and they think of big tables, long benches, and a group of people laughing too loud over plates passed back and forth. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Not today.

I’m talking about restaurants run by families.

It is not some faceless corporate chain where recipes are born in a test kitchen, engineered by marketing teams to maximize shelf life and “mouthfeel.”

I’m talking about food with history, with bloodlines, with stories.

Food where the recipe doesn’t come from a corporate memo but from someone’s grandmother.

Food brought over from the old country—whether that country is Mexico, Korea, Vietnam, or somewhere in between—served with the kind of pride you can taste in every bite.

Albuquerque happens to be one of the best cities in America for this.

A city that has kept its soul intact, where authentic New Mexican cuisine still sits at the center of the table, smothered in red and green chile. Where you can find Mexican food served out of family-run spots that have no PR teams, no focus groups—just a sign out front and a kitchen that runs out of beef tongue tacos because they’re that good.

Places that don’t need Instagram filters or foodie influencers because their customers already know.

And don’t even get me started on the Asian spots—Orchid Thai, my quiet little secret I hate to share because I know what happens when the wrong people find out.

I’ve seen it before.

Take Coda Bakery, my go-to for an excellent banh mi. I always order the #1. It used to be a hidden gem until the word got out.

Then came the food bloggers.

Then came the Food Network.

Now, I stand in line with tourists, waiting for something that once felt like mine alone.

But that’s how it goes.

The best things, once discovered, never stay secret.

And in a way, that’s okay.

The beauty of family-run restaurants isn’t just that they make the best food you’ve ever had—they make it proudly, and they’ll make it for everyone.

The recipe doesn’t change when the line gets longer.

The taste doesn’t shift to accommodate Yelp stars or branded merch.

What you’re eating is still the same dish someone’s auntie made years ago, the same soup someone’s father learned to perfect, the same bread someone’s mother kneaded in the early morning hours.

It’s real.

And real food leaves a mark.

Most of the time, I’m not one to go out. I don’t care much for the noise, the scene, the crowd.

I get my food to-go, bring it home, eat in peace.

But occasionally, when I need to remind myself why it matters, I’ll go.

I’ll sit.

Order a beer.

And try to guess what I should get.

Yes, it helps that I know the owners.

But friendship only gets you so far.

The food does the rest.

That’s family style.

Not the furniture.

Not the gimmick.

But the food—and the love—you’ll never find in a chain.

And the family that keeps serving it anyway.

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