THE HONG KONG AN ORAL HISTORY

THREE ENORMOUS BOUNCERS stand in a phalanx at the top of the stairs. I observe as, one by one, they verify the ages of each and every patron. They bend. They scratch. They optically dissect. I conclude that I'm in for some serious trouble. I consider aborting my mission, but I've come too far. Besides, I've already ascended halfway to the second floor, and below me, the narrow well is packed with eager customers. I'm trapped, caught on an escalator whose final destination is a holding cell at the Cambridge P.D.

The music gets louder and louder, and the lyrical magic of Puff Daddy resonates with ever greater intensity. As we approach the tribunal, I gently shove J.P. in front of me. Better his ass than mine. He produces a valid New York Learner's Permit. Three heads nod in concert. He's in. Now, it's my turn. I hand over my wallet and get ready to book. I just hope The Crimson will cover my bail...

Slowly, I come to my senses. My bare flesh recoils from my icy bathroom tile. I am wearing nothing but my red plaid boxers. There is a putrid stench, but its origin is unclear. Early morning sunlight streams through a window. I bring myself upright and lean against the bathtub. The toilet stands amidst a puddle of vomit. At its sight, I hold back a dry heave. God bless the Hong Kong.

SEN LEE'S FAMILY IMMIGRATED TO THE United States sometime in the 1920s. His son, Paul, doesn't remember the exact year. Sen grew up straddling two cultures--the traditional Chinese environment of his home and the playgrounds of Boston's public schools. When he came of age and his country called on him, he shipped off for the battlefields of World War II.

Upon his return, Sen found a wife and opened a laundry in Waltham. According to Paul, "Back then, if you were Chinese, it was either laundries or restaurants." In 1954, Sen and his wife, Buoy, grew tired of the difficult lifestyle that the laundry demanded and decided to pursue their other economic option. Along with a group of partners, he leased the bottom floor of 1236 Mass. Ave. and opened the Hong Kong Restaurant. Paul recalls, "They all told my mom she was crazy. They thought it was too far from the Square." But at the time, the Kong was the only Chinese restaurant in the area, and people flocked from far and wide to partake of the exotic Oriental cuisine. Of course, Paul confides, "If you took our food over to China, they'd say 'What's that?' We serve what Americans call Chinese food."

Within just a few years, the Kong was an established success. Sen's partners came to him with a proposition. They wanted to buy him out. He considered his options and decided that it didn't make much difference to him whether he cleaned clothing or cooked chow mein. His wife, on the other hand, was less flexible. Paul reports, "My mother told him that if [he sold his interest] and went back to the laundry, she would stay home with the kids, and he could work there by himself." So, Sen went to the bank and took out a loan. He returned to his partners, bought them out and became the sole proprietor of the Kong. Under his stewardship, business continued to thrive through the tumultuous 1960s. Apparently, not even widespread social unrest could squelch the public's appetite for fried dumplings.

ICAN'T MAKE 17. NOT FOR THE LIFE OF ME. I'M engaged in a heated game of Cricket with J.P., a version of darts that I've learned about five minutes ago. Some intoxicated tattooed townie in a Red Sox jacket explained the rules. I have to land three darts in certain numbered sectors of the board. I was doing fine until I got to 17. Now, nothing. I've tried 10 times and I can't land a single, freakin' dart.

I order another beer. My waitress returns with a plastic cup--the sort they serve in at NASCAR events. I politely inquire as to why my beer is not in a nice, tall, glass receptacle. She explains that the bar has run out of glass dishware. She is not particularly apologetic. I take up my cup, struggling not to collapse its form thereby squeezing out its contents.

At the table to my right, two gentlemen pursue the affections of two female strangers. They are striking out. Without much effort at concealment the women shoot each other disgusted glances. When they excuse themselves and head for the ladies room, I move in and introduce myself to the gents. I ask them how they think they're doing. "In the bag," they respond confidently. I ask them what they do for a living. "We're students at the Law School," they respond confidently. These guys have never had sex, I conclude confidently, and return to my game of darts.

Finally, I make 17. The lights come on and the familiar melody of "Closing Time" fills the room. J.P. and I bust our move. Suddenly, from the bowels of the room, a young woman approaches. She has a nose ring. It looks infected. She digs our groove. We head for the door.

IN 1974, SEN LEE LOOKED AT THE OFFICE SPACE above his restaurant and had a vision. He saw a fountain of booze and a windfall of cash. So, he built a bar. Thus was born The Lounge and the legend of the Kong as we know it today. From the beginning, the foundation of that legend has been the Scorpion Bowl, a tub of fruit punch, maraschino cherries, orange slices, ice and a dash of vodka. Every night, for the past 20 years, mature adults have gathered to suck on three-foot straws as if those straws were their mothers' teats. Indeed, since the first Bowl was laid down in the center of a table by a disgruntled non-English-speaking waiter, men and women have found themselves inexplicably drawn to the Scorpion's sweet ambrosia. Paul modestly tries to explain the phenomenon: "The Scorpion Bowl is our signature drink. But every Chinese restaurant in America has a Scorpion Bowl on the menu. For some reason, we just made it popular."

The Hong Kong grew steadily in the '70s. In addition to the construction of the bar, Sen acquired ownership of the building. This included a third floor, which he decided to use as storage space. Sen's decision to buy out his landlord was crucial to the long-term survival of the Kong. To this day, he is revered by local proprietors for his business acumen. Billy Bartley, who works the grill at his father's famous burger joint, gushes, "Mr. Lee was the smartest man. The only man on the whole avenue who owns his own building--that makes him brilliant. Absolutely. The bunch of us are at the whim of our landlord. The guy was a genius."

In 1982, Playboy magazine named the Hong Kong "Harvard's Hottest Hangout." Paul waxes nostalgic: "Back then it wasn't considered socially irresponsible to drink. Every night, the whole week, it was just crazy in here." To capitalize on the country's alcoholic inclinations, Sen started the 69 Club. The qualifications for membership? Drink all 69 varieties of beer that the Kong serves. For every 69 customers who complete the gauntlet, the Kong mounts a commemorative plaque on its wall. According to Paul, there are some folks who have earned their membership 20 times over.

As the debauchery at the Kong escalated out of control, so did the rumor mill. The Kong was alleged to house a gambling hall, a smuggling ring and a brothel. All one had to do was order "three egg rolls," and the doors to the underworld would swing open. Where precisely did this vast criminal empire reside? Up the dark stairs, behind the closed door of the unused third floor. Paul recounts, "People used to ask my father what was on the third floor. He'd tell them it was storage. No one would believe him. They'd say, 'Come on, you can tell me. What's really up there?' They couldn't accept the fact that it was just old junk and cases of beer. So, they just assumed stuff like that."

ON MY FIRST VISIT TO THE RESTROOM, I stare Kong culture dead in the eye. The vomit looks a brown, orange color-like vegetable moo shoo gai pan splattered on the toilet and hanging on the stall walls. The smell cripples me and I feel a spasm contract my stomach. I close my eyes, hold my breath and aim my stream of kidney-processed Budweiser into the puke lagoon. The guy facing the urinal turns his head to caution his buddy entering the restroom, "Watch out, somebody zooped in here!" I've never heard of zooping before, but I sure as hell know what he means. I am a beginner, a student learning the vernacular of the Kong. Tonight I meet the cast of characters.

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.