The call came in the middle of the day and with it came a familiar voice. My editor.

"I want to know if you're up for this one," he said. "Someone I know told me that there's this really wild and decadent bar somewhere in Manila where mostly expats go. This guy didn't even know the name of the place or where it is, but he said the place is like some known secret among the foreigners here. Have you ever been to this place or heard about it?"

"No," I said, "But you're telling me it's a secret place?"

"Well, sort of I think. Among foreigners. It's supposed to be a real hole in the wall. But supposedly anything goes right there in the bar. Are you interested in trying to find it and check it out?"

"What, a semi-secretive cheap dive frequented by sex-crazed expats? A place where decadence reigns? What do you take me for? Sure, why not. I'll see what I can dig up." My first reaction after hanging up the phone was wondering why I hadn't heard of the place before. Oh well, I wasn't complaining. One can never get enough of the underbelly of life. While you'd have a hard time getting anybody to publicly admit there is any redeeming social value in cheap dives packed with decadent behavior, these kinds of places always offer up that bare bones honesty and no pretense action that so-called legitimate places could never give. There's a certain charm in things that are low.

What intrigued me, as well, was that not only was the place in question apparently semi-secretive, but it was also exclusive to expats. Expats in Asia have been known to go off the deep end and this one sounded like just that kind of spot.

But where to start? For several days I sat on the idea before finally, one dreary and rainy Friday night, I decided to venture out on a mission to find this dive whose name and location I did not even know.

I started in Makati at the Prince of Wales pub, a well-known watering hole frequented by the foreign crowd. I figured my chances were good someone at the Prince would have been to this place. I saw a friend who is a fellow scribe and pulled up a chair at the table where he, several foreigners, and their Filipina wives sat imbibing. When nobody was paying attention, I asked him about the cheap dive.

"That place?" he immediately asked in astonishment. "Why do you want to go there?"

"Because," I said, "I want to check it out."

"Oh man, that place is a real hole in the wall. The low of the low. You won't even be able to find it unless someone takes you there. It's in a real bad neighborhood." His friend Matt, a Welshman, had been sitting across the table and picked up what we were talking about. He moved his chair closer and joined the conversation.

"Matey, matey," he said laughing while shaking his head. "Talk about a dive. That place takes the cake." Both of them had been there at least once several years ago and for the next 45 minutes they filled me in on some of the details as they could remember them.

"These days it's sort of a traditional secret amongst foreigners," the scribe said. "But back in the 1940's, after the war, that place used to be a society café. No kiding. But over the years, especially during Vietnam , it evolved into a sleaze joint."

"That's the understatement of the year," Matt said. "They have a room next to the bar called 'The Office.' That's where they conduct business, if you know what I mean. When I went to this place, there was no sign, no lights out front and no electricity. To get in you have to knock on this big metal door. A slot opens and a pair of eyes look at you. If they see you're all right, then they'll let you in. When we walked in there was nobody there and the place was dark. But all of a sudden, a bartender comes out of nowhere with a cold San Mig, the piano player turns up and sits at the old piano, they light a few candles and put them on the piano and the girls come over from the dorm across the street. You could be the only one there and, no matter the time of day, they'll open it for you."

"Sounds interesting," I said. "Why don't you take me there?"

"I'm not even sure where it is, Matey," Matt said. "Besides, I'm a happily married man." But I could tell he was intrigued. The way he talked about the place, I figured he had a good time there several years ago.

Thirty minutes later Matt and I were speeding through the streets of Makati in his shiny black Honda on our way to look for the joint. He had ditched his wife at another Makati bar with some friends. Matt had already had many drinks and drove like a crazy man. He had only a vague idea where this place might be. I also had had a few beers and soon lost my sense of direction. I knew we were definitely no longer in Makati . We must have driven for 45 minutes, mostly in circles it seemed, through some of the darkest and narrowest streets I have ever seen in Manila . Many of the streets were torn up and the buildings looked old and rundown. I figured this place's reputation must be well deserved.

We stopped several times to ask directions and soon started finding people who knew of the place. Finally we were directed to the exact location of the bar by a bicycle pedicab driver, who smiled when he pointed to the front door. Indeed the place was situated on a quiet, dark and narrow lane. Like every other building in the neighborhood the place looked run down. There were no lights on and there was no sign. We parked the car on the curb and the pedicab driver went to the front door and knocked. As Matt and I walked up, the door was slightly cracked open. When the woman inside saw the two foreigners, she opened the door all the way and let us in.

The first thing I saw were three white guys standing at the bar to my right drinking San Miguels. I heard them speaking German. They were surrounded by five attentive Filipinas wearing white T-shirts and shorts. The girls looked to be in their late teens and early 20's, except one who was easily in her 40's. None looked particularly pretty. A lady bartender sat behind the bar and an older lady, probably Mamasan , lounged on a chair against the wall. Other than that the place looked empty.

"From a Swiss," Mamasan said, when she noticed us checking out the calendar. At the other end of the bar sat an idle piano. But what really caught my attention was the floor, which consisted of a maze of black and white painted tiles that when laid together formed what looked like one of those old M. C. Escher paintings that play tricks on the eye. The tiles were clean and in perfect condition. "That's the original floor," Mamasan said. Just then several new girls appeared out of nowhere and accosted Matt and me.

"Sir, what's your name?" asked one of the girls with an ugly grin.

"Joe," I said. "Hey, where's the piano player?"

"He's sleeping," said Mamasan. Suddenly a naked girl ran out of a dark area of the bar. She grabbed something from a table and ran back into the dark area.

"What's over there?" I asked Lucy, one of the girls who had swarmed over Matt and myself and who now had her hand placed between my thighs.

"That's 'The Office,'" said the bartendress.

Sir, we go into The Office," Lucy said with a longing pout on her face.