The waiter comes with our sandwiches. For some inexplicable reason, hers has a salad. She takes a bite and exclaims, "God, this salad is one of the best things I've ever eaten. It has really tart apples. And pecans."

My cheese sandwich is good. Who would have guessed the children of Robespierre could perfect Wisconsin cuisine? We're both silent a moment over our food. I then mention encounters I've had with Merle Haggard and Hank Williams' grandson. Both of these hardcore country musicians complained with bitterness of being squashed creatively by Nashville suits. "Do you have relative freedom from the Nashville establishment?" I ask.

"I don't have anything to do with the Nashville establishment," she says with determination. "It's a recording-industry, whatever's-gonna-sell kind of town. And there is this town underneath the town. It's songwriter based. Very creative. In Nashville you have Steve Earle and Gillian Welch, Lucinda Williams. And you're never going to hear them on country radio. I've always had the freedom to do whatever I wanted from the beginning. I lucked into that."

"I have this vision of Nashville executive wives with beehive hairdos," I say, "and little white purses around their wrists."

"Tony Brown [the king of Nashville] is an old friend," she tells me. "He used to play piano for me. We meet socially. He's a bright guy. I don't have anything to do with him creatively. But even Tony in the early days -- when he was first gaining power -- put out records with Albert Lee and Jerry Douglas. He was really trying to make a difference. So I don't know where the resistance to roots country is coming from. Radio blames the record companies. Record companies blame radio. You have all these millions of people buying the flavor of the month. It is what it is. Ultimately you have to have the courage to do what you want to do." She puts her fork in her salad, then leaves it. "I do want to say this: I think it's a shame that Merle Haggard would even have to complain. When I think about this man and what he has done and the body of work he has done and is still doing as a writer, as a bandleader, as a singer, the fact that he isn't on the charts is a travesty. There are new country music fans who don't even know who he is. Same thing with George Jones. That's just not right."

"Your new label, Nonesuch, is millions of miles from a Nashville label, isn't it?" I ask.

"I'm finding out that they are a bunch of people who love all kinds of different music," she answers. "They believe that there is life beyond radio. I believe Nonesuch signs the artists they believe in, not the ones that they think are going to sell 6 million records. I love what they did with the Buena Vista Social Club. I think they do things for the right reasons." Then she says, "This is fantastic," again about her sandwich.

I notice a plate of little white nuggets beside her salad bowl. "What are those?"

"That's to dunk in the soup," she laughs. "They're garlicky things and then you dunk them in the soup." She catches the waiter: "I think I'm finally done. I'll have a cup of coffee, please."

I choose this moment to ask the one personal thing I've heard about Harris. I know guitarist Chris Whitley, who in turn knows Lanois, the producer of "Wrecking Ball." Whitley told me Lanois and Harris were an item.

"I made a record with him," she says.

"Were you romantically involved?"

"No," she answers. "We knock around together a lot."

I drop it. The waiter brings the dessert menu. "Banana burrito," she says. "That sounds interesting."

She makes no move to order one. So I do.

"Are you a fan of anybody who intimidates you?" I ask.

She answers immediately. "Aretha Franklin. I met her once backstage." Pause. "She's just ... it."

"Do you still feel normal around Bob Dylan?" I ask. (She duetted with him on his mid-'70s album "Desire.")

"Does anybody?" Harris answers with a laugh. "I've only hung around with him when we were making a record. And one other time -- a TV show for Willie Nelson. I actually sang on that record they did for Jimmy Rodgers, and the track was already done. And he decided he wanted to re-sing it and I wasn't available to do the harmony." She pauses. "Boy, he's a tough one to sing with. You think it's the most convoluted thing. But then after you actually figure out what he's done, you realize the genius. His phrasing. What he does with a lyric is just astonishing. He comes up with things that are totally unique, and serve the song. It's not like he's showing off."

The coffee comes. The banana burrito as well.

"It's beautiful," she says, peering at it. "Lovely color."

It looks like a cross between a fish and a petal from a ginger plant. I push the plate toward her and hand her a fork. "Take a nip."

She doesn't. I feel like Satan tempting Harris, so I look away. Maybe she'll take a bite. "How conscious are you about your private life?" I ask.

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