The Macanese Dream

The “Made in China” tag isn’t always detrimental. Especially after you’ve spent a day or two in Macau, China’s tush flash of a city — both an indication of its location in the colossal country’s nethermost region and how it has delivered a mighty cabaret kick of hedonism to the mainland’s dreary communism.

While the Sino-Portuguese outpost may have been a destination for creamy egg tarts, architectural antiquity (hear me yawn) and limited leisure for quite some time — “casinotel” emperor Stanley Ho lording over the gaming industry for over three decades with the ostent-Asian (tackily extravagant, really) design of his establishments — the recent, rapid beam-in of the west’s best theme casino hotels has given Macau that much-needed swing of a showgirl’s nipple tassel.

Now, everyone from Guangzhou’s fake LV-assembling factory workers to Filipino politicians looking for that proximal getaway to bet the people’s money away can live large/r in this rising “Las Vegas of the East.”    

Macau Macks on the Tourist Masses

I’m feeling a little destination déjà vu, in fact. A less-than-two-hour flight from Manila and I feel like I’m back in Vegas, albeit in a nippier, less inebriated Vegas cloaked in sea mist rather than desert heat. Although Macau’s Cotai Strip isn’t as electrically astounding considering there are more construction sites than hotels and a drought of the tangerine-tanned spring breakers or visor-clad tourists milling about the Vegas strip with meter margaritas in-hand, there’s a seething quality to the place that mirrors that of its western counterpart; like the Chinese are a couple of Tsingtao beers away from ripping off their drab layering, breaking down their Great Wall of stoicism, and embracing the big bang of lotus-eating pleasure that Macau can offer.

There’s The Wynn, of course — decorated hotelier Steve Wynn’s labor of taipan love this side of the earth — a grandiose garden of glitz that stands in all its bronze mirrored glory on the waterfront. And as a much-needed upgrade to the decades-old institution that is Stanley Ho’s Hotel Lisboa and a gag-inducing stab at reclaiming Cotai strip opulence from The Wynn, The Grand Lisboa stands on the other side of the street; a frenetically lit, phallic trophy with 1.2 million LEDs embellishing its outer surface. While the Wynn Macau retains the Beverly Hills WASP vibe that its Vegas original evoked — the taffy wall tones, ultra luxury retail (high rollers and their hooker arm candy would be satisfied with the Hermés and Dior boutiques), and the performance lake that uses 200 water shooters to dance around with Baryshnikov-like flourish — the contempo-Chinese-designed Grand Lisboa raises the fist of Liberace’s ghost to assert its unrivaled nouveau riche-ness: gold-plated, Faberge egg-inspired pillars and chandeliers screaming Swarovski crystal overkill; celebrity/Michelin chef-adorned restaurants that serve such fussy fare as lobster cocotte and pan-seared Wagyu to ensnare all aspiring food snobs; and the band of label hookers who march through the lobby trying to bag tricks for the night so they can, well, pay for that next LV bag.

Gondolas, gambling, go-go girls, and everything in-between

If there’s a truly gawk-worthy resort in Macau, however, it’s The Venetian. At least that’s what I’m witnessing as I walk through the hotel’s grand ballroom-like lobby — hordes of mainlanders pointing at Renaissance-era dome paintings and standing in front of elephantine pillars for photo-ops; apparent appreciation in that a structure of such extravagant, infinite proportions (it’s the second-largest building in the world) has rightfully been established in their upsized country.

I’m quite taken aback by the immensity of The Venetian, myself. It’s exactly as I experienced it at its prototype in Las Vegas — ballsier, even — considering its steroidal replication of the original replica of Italy’s Venice, complete with sky-painted ceilings (bright, azure mornings and salmon sunsets; clouds included) and blue-water canals delineating miles of retail-decked, lacquered stone walkway with stripe-shirted Caucasian gondoliers rowing gently by, singing arias to awkward Chinese passengers who don’t know what to make of it all. Of course, a city within a hotel should have everything for everybody: 3,400 slot machines for cup-carrying grannies to go mad for, street shows at an artificial town square and Chinese acrobat-profuse Cirque du Soleil productions for the kids, and a great expanse of shopping for housewives as their husbands try to cushion the credit card blow by working the tables at a casino with the floor space of five Araneta Coliseums (now that’s the largest in the world).      

Sure, you can always throw some chips around, momentarily relishing a who-has-the-higher-card-wins game of Casino War or possibly piss away a fortune playing high-limit anything at the Sands Macau or any of the Chinese-themed casinos along Cotai. Gambling may be Macau’s primary pleasure but new developments in the past year have made sure that everybody gets some play in the city. Whether it’s investing some downtime through a MOP980 (that’s roughly P 5,000) limoncello-infused signature massage at the Venetian’s V Spa, snagging your baby momma some Tiffany at the Wynn, or hitting up the Fashion Club at the hip-injected Fisherman’s Wharf to enjoy the table-dancing go-go girls amid chi-chi Chinese and expats, there are countless ways to whittle away your bank account in a city where you can practically choose your own adventure by hotel hopping through the strip.

Despite the disco jade palace vibe that throbs throughout the Grand Lisboa, its Restaurant 4, 5, 6 still has the best Peking duck in town. In those few seconds you sink your teeth into air-crisp, roasted duck carvings — each piece of candied skin oozing ambrosial duck juice and dizzying oil onto your tongue — you won’t mind the Macanese mafia boss at the next table dripping hoisin sauce all over his track suit while he vociferously barks orders into his cellphone. And if you’re a hard-bodied hedonist who doesn’t “do carbs” but is always up for clinking cocktail glasses, the MGM Grand — marketing their “Are you a player?” campaign to highlight their hotel as a hook-up haven — has got several nocturnal establishments like the M Bar and the Veuve Clicquot Lounge for all mood-lit and liquor-lubed acts of debauchery; the hotel baring the incandescence of one huge nightclub. 

You better believe Macau is flashing its neon lights for pleasure-seekers everywhere, especially with the oncoming infiltration of grand-scale acts (The Police and Vegas’s former “show girl” Celine Dion visited a while back) and international hotels in the next year (a Ritz-Carlton and W Hotel in the works), Macau may even prove to outstrip Vegas. For us, the hour-and-a-half plane ride will be like our own obligatory drive to the city of sin, except that we’ll certainly feel more at home, what with every other employee in resorts being Filipino, from the casino waitress handing out complimentary glasses of tea at the roulette table to the bar maiden at the Venetian’s McSorley’s Old Ale House; a looker named Dina who’s just served me a pint of the NYC-born pub’s famous lager and who’s suggesting I check out The Papaya Lounge, a topless joint at the neighboring Grand Waldo Hotel. There’ll be plenty time for that the next time I drop by here, though. Maybe touch down on the airstrip with a couple of buddies, shack up at a Holiday Inn, and live like kings tearing into palatial hotels and hoping to get bumped-up to a decked-out suite with a few lucky card hands. And who knows, a few artificially tanned Chinese-clasping cold-meter margaritas might be walking the strip by then.