The next time some fine young Eastern European backpacker asks you to direct him to a hip area of town, steer him up Capitol Hill to Linda’s. Twenty- and thirtysomethings hang out under the stuffed buffalo head at the bar, out on the back deck, or near the jukebox where they queue up Johnny Cash songs. It’s a see-and-be-seen scene, but not an impenetrable one, and particularly laudable by weekend daylight, when recovering revelers take down omelets, Bloody Marys, and pitchers of mimosas as fast as servers can bring them.