I take notes on Noah's spare Keno cards, and at 10:35 I feel inspired to write the following: "There are trolls around here." I write this after I see a four-foot tall man scrambling around in the darkness below the tables. About twenty minutes later, a group of attractive women enter the bar and a soundtrack seems to follow them. I write: "10:58: the women arrive and on comes Matchbox 20." I speak with the following people: a white B.C. girl with a tan as dark as soy sauce; a grumpy middle-aged Hong Kong security guard; and a dirty man in a Marine Corps jacket who smokes Salems and spits when he speaks. He tells me he was last stationed in Iraq and now he works on Tremont Street in the recruiting station. At the end of the evening, a man with a giant white beard, a round belly and a cowboy hat makes an entrance. My Keno note reads: "1:31 a.m.: cowboy Santa enters with gusto." Five minutes later, I log my final observation: "1:36 Sat, HK hopping." The circus is in town.

PAUL LEE HAD NO INTENTION OF FOLLOWing his father into the restaurant business. He remembers, "I didn't want to be here in the beginning. I wanted to give the 9 to 5 grind a try...I went to Clarkson College and studied computer science. I had jobs lined up. Then in 1986, on the night of my graduation, my father had a heart attack. So I came back to help out." Under Paul's leadership, the 1990s have been a decade of prosperity for the Kong.

Paul explains that the college crowds that used to pack the second floor bar have waned over the years: "People still party, but there's less of it. It seems like the kids don't go out as much. They have exams, papers..." So, Paul shifted his focus to an older clientele. He says he tried to go after the graduate school crowd, but with only marginal success. In 1993, he made the propitious decision to transform the third floor into a dance club. He booked D.J. Tim Mann and hoped for the best. What he got was hordes of hip-hop-loving African Americans who, for the past nine years, have kept coming back. Paul laughs, "They never take a break. They're here every weekend, the same people. They come from as far away as Maine."

There has also been an influx of local characters, oddballs from all around Cambridge who are attracted to the Kong's low-key atmosphere. Paul describes one of his favorites: "Well, there's Marc, the real little guy who always hangs out behind the Lethal Enforcer machine. I think he did too much acid back in the '60s. Supposedly he was really smart, but I guess he fried his brain." As far as Paul is concerned, freaks of nature will always be welcome at the Kong. He lays out his philosophy: "As far as I'm concerned, if you don't cause trouble, come and enjoy yourself, even if you're weird. Your money is as green as the next guy."

If one believes the word around Harvard, the Kong's policy toward underage drinking is similarly laissez-faire. While undergraduates might not frequent the Kong's upper levels to the same extent as they used to, the late night Bowl is still a popular pastime--especially for the youngsters. Paul acknowledges that, in the past, the Kong's wait staff has had some trouble discerning the validity of some ID's: "If you got a note from your mother saying you were 21 and laminated it, [my waiters] would probably accept it...We have to keep on top of them."

"J .P., PARTY OF TWO. J.P. PARTY OF TWO" announces the low-fidelity P.A. system, cutting off "Son of a Preacherman" on the jukebox.

My female companion pays our cover charge of seven dollars each; we take small, red tickets and ascend the staircase to the top Kong. "I gave him a 20 and he gave me back 13!" she whispers to me. We come upon a dance club pulsing to hip-hop beats; disco lights flash and swirl spastically. In the corner above the packed dance floor stands the deejay booth ornamented by two gilt Chinese dragons. The mythical beasts seem to stare at us knowingly, disapproving of such trespass. Suddenly, my friend turns to me and shouts above the music, "Where's my sweater?!"

We spring into action; we retrace our steps, search our table downstairs and find nothing. She swears she had it in her hands, that it disappeared into thin air. The loss is grave, I soon find out-it was a cashmere sweater. Our spirits rise when she and I notice a friend of ours in the middle of dance floor and we work through the crowd to say hello. When we get up close, we find ourselves duped once again--it isn't our friend; just someone strikingly similar--his evil twin, we nervously joke. The third floor has us beat and we retreat downstairs. We enter the second floor to take one last look.

Suddenly, I realize that I have lost my companion. I panic. But before my imagination can come up with a grim fantasy--my friend and her sweater both nabbed by the Chinese mob--I spot her talking to a tall, ripped, good-looking guy. She lights a cigarette and gestures for me to take off. I leave alone, cursing the Kong as I walked down Mass. Ave. back home.

THE KONG IS THE ONE OF THE LAST OF A dying breed--family owned establishments in the Square. Paul reflects, "There aren't many of us left. It's hard to keep up with the times, you have to constantly reinvent yourself. And the transition from one generation to the next is really hard." Paul is proud of the Kong's survival and is happy to have carried on the tradition his father started nearly 50 years ago. "It's nice," he says, "I have people's kids coming in here now whose parents knew my parents...You get generations of Harvard people who all come back."

When asked to describe the future of the Kong, Paul is cautious. "I wouldn't rule anything out," he informs us before pausing to think. "Windows," he suddenly announces. "People really like windows. They like sitting near them and looking out. Just check out Grafton and that new Temple Bar. You need the windows." Sen would be proud.

PAUL LEE HAS US WAIT. HE IS JUST FINISHING up business and putting his cell phone to rest for the evening when we arrive at his restaurant. It is our final visit to the Kong, and this time we come as journalists writing an article for The Harvard Crimson. We still get carded.

Paul doesn't dodge any questions nor does he have our legs broken in the back room. We are a little disappointed--it would have made for good material. After he graciously tells us his story, we have one last request--a tour of the notorious third floor. Paul consents.

We head up the stairs, and Paul unlocks the battered turquoise door. The room is tired, cold and empty. No music, no prostitutes. No drugs, no egg rolls to go. Not even a cigarette butt. Just a junky room with some papier-mâché dragons. The desolate service bar looks like a seventh grade woodshop project. The stools are stacked upside down.

Paul watches as we wander the room, peering into every corner, inspecting the empty Budweiser tub, searching for evidence of...something. What? We are no longer sure.

After our third lap, he asks, "You boys seen enough?" We had.