As I’m driving on Aurora Ave. to Canlis to meet up with my “Drinks With” companion, Linda Derschang, I begin to feel nervous.  This is my modus operandi when it comes to just about every interview I’ve been involved with.  It really makes no difference if I know the person or not, my nerves work against me.  In an attempt to remedy this I make sure to have notes, questions, ideas. Something  written down and in front of me during the interview in order to keep me focused, reassured – a security blanket.  Also, you should probably know that I like to call an interview a “chat” because I think using the word “chat” makes the entire “talking with a stranger thing” seem a bit more friendly and welcoming. I’m looking forward to our first drink…  

In my preparation of this interview, I wrote down but two words in ink on the top of my right hand: “American Hipster”.  Hopefully I remember to look at my hand.

I pull in to the driveway of Canlis, a very upscale dining sort of place, in my ’87 Volvo.  I got this car from a listener (for my day job I work on KIRO 97.3’s Ron and Don Show and was sold this Volvo for a dollar!) – and right now my 26-year-old car seems mildly out of place among the swath of vehicles that probably belong to CEO’s of Fortune 500’s. I wait for an attendant, as valet parking is the only option.

When one arrives I tell him that I am one person of a party of two and that we don’t have reservations.  He seems concerned about the no reservation thing but says that he’ll check to see if there might be some room in the bar area.  Within two minutes, a blond, young, courteous host says that in fact there is room for two in the bar but the issue now is that I’m wearing a green tee-shirt that reads “Big Fun”.  To be clear, the issue isn’t with the words “Big Fun” – however I’m sure it plays a part – but more specifically the issue is that Canlis has a strict dress code. Let’s flashback briefly to earlier this morning when I’m getting dressed for my workday: I think for a second that I should wear something nice because, well, shit, I’m going to effing Canlis for drinks and an interview.  I disregard that thought as quickly as it came to me because I really like my green tee-shirt that reads “Big Fun”, and I want other people to like it, too.  What I wasn’t expecting was a dress code.  Flash forward to the present where I’m learning from the blond, young, courteous host that I’ll have to borrow a suit jacket in order to step inside this establishment.  “Sounds good,” I say.  What choice do I have?

I step off the street and into another world. I walk to the lobby – feeling out of place in my jeans and tee-shirt – and explain my situation to the gentleman manning the station.  I make sure confidence and ownership guide my every word.  He has me try on a couple of different suit jackets and I choose the second of the two.  The fit of the jacket makes me think of Chris Farley in the movie Tommy Boy during the fat guy in a little coat scene.  I’m taken to a table directly in front of the piano player who’s playing Billy Joel’s, “The Piano Man” – which only adds to the already somewhat comical situation as I’m going to need to record my conversation with Linda and there’s a good chance the music might override all of the chit-chat between us.  I sit down and order a Jamison on the rocks.  Music plays.  People talk.

Linda arrives soon after, dressed casual-fancy (if that’s a thing), looking stunning in her black number.  I stand, we shake hands and our evening officially begins.

Linda is the owner of several very popular and very successful establishments in Seattle.  King’s Hardware in Ballard, which I go to often. And the others – Linda’s Tavern, Smith, Oddfellows, Bait Shop, and her most recent, Tallulah’s, a cafe and bar named for her daughter, which will see a November opening – are located in Capitol Hill.  Our conversation begins with, of all things, talk about our individual technological impairment’s and the fact that Linda can’t quite figure out how to use Spotify. I tell her that I don’t have my own computer.  She seems appalled. “You don’t have a computer?”

“Nope.  Everything I do is at work or I’ll go to the library.  I just recently got this smart phone about a year ago, I used to have an old Nokia–”

As if wanting to change the subject quickly, Linda asks if I recognize the song being played on the piano. Unfortunately, I don’t. “Oh, then you don’t watch a certain show.  I can’t wait for its next season.”

“No, what show?”

“Downton Abbey.”

“You’re a fan?”

“I love it!” She brightens up. We start talking about the old days when TV shows had certain start and stop times throughout the year, which led us to talking about TV Guide. “I remember TV Guide in the grocery store and at friends’ houses,” she reminisces.  “My mother didn’t really care for TV so we didn’t have TV Guide in our house.  We’d look in the newspaper every day to see what was on.”

“I think we might have grown up of the same era,” I say.  “I don’t want to ask your age because for some–”

“I am quite a bit older than you are but thank you, that’s very kind of you,” she interjects. She laughs.  Her laugh is sweet and genuine.  Our waiter arrives then and Linda orders a Sapphire Martini with three olives and a sparkling water.  I continue sipping my Jamison.  I ask Linda if she has a favorite of her many establishments and she tells me that they’re like her children and that it’s near impossible to have a favorite.  But then she describes each in detail:

“Linda’s is my oldest, my favorite in some ways.” (I guess it’s actually not that hard to have a favorite!) “Linda’s is my kid that didn’t graduate from college and is totally fun and funny and maybe never will have that great career but is always going be this awesome, fun person.  Linda’s will always be young at heart, let’s just say.  King’s was probably a bit more of a good student and maybe did some team sports or something.  Oddfellow’s is an art major, a really creative kid.  Smith is somewhere in between and Bait Shop is just too new to know.  I love them all in different ways.”

Chop Suey, The Baltic Room and Viceroy were all once a part of Linda’s life as well.  Of the three, the only place that she didn’t love, that didn’t quite feel right, as she put it, was Chop Suey.  She owned the place just shy of a year and realized she wasn’t a nightclub owner and decided to move on.  She says that she did in fact love The Baltic Room and owned the place for roughly 6 years but then eventually decided, again, to let go of it.  It’s not just restaurants, bars and the occasional nightclub that Linda has had a hand in opening, either.  Early on in her entrepreneurial career she owned a couple of coffee shops and a clothing store called Basic.  We talk about her clothing store and then shopping malls, leading us to admit silly things we did as teenagers:

I tell Linda about the time my friends and I attempted to purchase an adult magazine at some major chain book store at Bellevue Square Mall and Linda tells me about the time her and her brother thought it would be a good idea to plant pot seeds in her mother’s terrarium when she wasn’t home and how a few months later a pot plant was growing in said terrarium.  She laughed as she told me this story and said that she was astounded it had actually worked because you never think that throwing a couple of pot seeds in your mother’s terrarium would amount to anything!

“So, what’s with the whole taxidermy thing?” I blurt then, feeling nicely buzzed.

“I’ve always liked it,” she answers gracefully. “My grandmother lived in upstate N.Y. and she had a bear skin with a head on it but instead of it resting on the floor in front of the fireplace it was slung over a balcony.  I can’t remember if she had other taxidermy but she had lots of oriental rugs and antiques.  It was a tiny bit spooky but also magical.”

“You weren’t freaked out at all?”

“No, it’s my dark side,” she said happily.

The piano man serenades us with a rendition of Hallelujah and I mistakenly credit Jeff Buckley as the original composer, which segues us to the idea of comparison. I tend to compare myself to my peers, I tell her, often negatively.  It comes and it goes but when it’s around, boy oh boy, can it be rough.  Depending on my mood the whole comparison thing can either have me reaching out, networking and booking guests for my music podcast or, on the other hand, I might just troll Facebook and/or other random internet holes to see what others are up to and sulk.  Good times!  I ask Linda if she has ever fallen victim to the disease of comparison to others in her field.  She pauses for a moment and says, “No, not really.”

“Well, you want to go into whatever it is you’re doing thinking that it’s the best, right?” I pose.

“I don’t know if it’s thinking that you’re the best.  I think of my places as a person’s favorite so rather than being the best I’m shooting for a favorite.  I can’t be everybody’s favorite place.  Some people that go to Oddfellow’s have never even been to Linda’s and that’s ok, that’s totally great.  I’m always thrilled to have someone say, “King’s is my favorite place” or “King’s is one of my favorite places”.  I’m looking for that applause but I’m not necessarily concerned with being the best.  What does being the best mean anyway?”  She makes a good point. I feel buoyed for at least a moment.

We continue to chat about the idea of applause.  It’s the recognition from strangers that’s fun, whether it’s opening up a restaurant or producing a show or writing an AMAZING piece for The Monarch Review about a Seattle success story who has made a name for herself giving people yummy things to eat and drink.  The applause, when it comes, is a very satisfying perk of the work.  Linda notes she would much rather spend 60 hours a week doing something she loves than working any amount of hours doing something she hated.  All in all, we’re on the same level.  I like Linda Derschang!

Our bill arrives soon after and I settle up with our waiter.  I return the borrowed suit jacket and Linda and I exit the fine restaurant.  We say our goodbyes and I tell her that I’m totally going to drop her name the next time I venture into one of her establishments.  She laughs.  “It’s worth a try,” she says.  And, like that, I’m back on the street in my Volvo, heading home.  It’s a few miles before I realize I never asked her about the two words on my hand, “American Hipster”.  Turns out, I didn’t need to.