The real art to interviewing is living the paradox of not appearing to be too desperate in a situation in which your future is potentially at stake.  Of course you care – and want to show you care – but you also need to project a little cool.  You want to have a touch of that Obama-like detachment that he showed in the debates when he was at his best.  You’re engaged and fully present, but you also can put the whole exercise into perspective; you know that it is a game at one level, and serious at another. 

That’s a lot to accomplish, and a lot to signal.  The best way to think about it is to keep the focus simple:  focus (1) on your emotional engagement with the job or task under discussion – you’re interested, or you wouldn’t be there – and (2) on your confidence that stems from knowing your role in the overall scheme of things – you’ll survive to interview another day if this isn’t the right one for you. 

For the second, non-verbal conversation, focus on being as relaxed as you can, under the circumstances, but observant and alert too.  Another paradox, perhaps, but therein lies the art. 

I had a job interview with a consulting firm a number of years ago that illustrated both these paradoxes – in my lack of ability to control them.

It started well.  I had the necessary cool, because the job involved a lot of travel and the company was headquartered in another city, so I was genuinely unsure if I could make it work.   I was to meet with the company president for dinner at a nice restaurant in the distant city. 

I’d heard about the restaurant but never eaten there, so I was looking forward to the meal.  That’s part of the secret of focusing – keep it immediate.  (“If nothing else, I’m going to have a nice meal at a restaurant I’ve always wanted to try.”)

I met the president in the lobby of the restaurant.  Both of us were on time.  The first faintly alarming note was that he insisted on making a big deal of the fact that he knew the m’aitre d’.  But we sat down, exchanged pleasantries, and I reached for the menu. 

At that point, the prez insisted that I put the menu away.  “I’ll order for both us,” he said in a way that allowed for no alternatives, “something a little bit special, off the menu.” 

I hate that kind of grandstanding, but I was in for it.  It turned out that he ordered a gigantic lobster for me, almost certainly as a test to see how I handled messy eating under pressure.   While we were waiting for the food to come, he delivered a monologue on the wonders of working for his company.  I could hardly get a word in edgewise. 

It had been a long time since I had had lobster.  What neither one of us knew was that I had developed an allergy in the intervening years.  After the first bite or two, my throat started closing up.  I could barely breathe. 

I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and promptly threw up.  I was back at the table in a minute, and the prez was so self-involved he noticed nothing untoward. 

For the next hour, I proceeded to push lobster around on the plate, occasionally taking a bite when the prez interrupted his monologue to say, “You’re hardly eating.”  Twice more I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. 

I was focused on survival, so I presented a weird mixture of intensity and detachment that apparently worked perfectly on the president, who was one of nature’s more oblivious specimens.  On the emotional intelligence scale, he rated a minus ten. 

I don’t recommend having an allergic reaction as a way of presenting intensity and detachment at the same time, but I did get the job offer.