Puffed-up luxe and Satan’s cock | Wing Lei, Macau

On China’s southern coast, Macau comprises a small narrow peninsula, just 37 miles west of Hong Kong. It juts from the mainland province of Guangdong, shedding its once island status via a connecting sandbar. Originally a sparsely populated collection of coastal islands, it was under Chinese jurisdiction and settled during the Han dynasty, between 202 BC and 9 AD. By the end of the 16th century, Macau had been leased to Portugal as a trading post. In the years that followed, a new type of cuisine began to emerge, a mix of Chinese and Portuguese ingredients, now recognised by UNESCO as the world’s first fusion food.

Since living in Southeast Asia, I have immersed myself in the epicurean consumption of popular local fare, however seemingly odd to a white foreign washashore

Fast forward a few hundred years and Macau was handed back to China from its Portuguese colonial rule in 1999, just as Hong Kong was in 1997, forcing large numbers of Macanese residents to emigrate. One of the most obvious impacts of this territorial annexe was the opened floodgate to international business interests and casino wealth. Macao is only second to Las Vegas for square feet of gambling and gaming space. It has its own Venetian hotel which also happens to be the seventh largest building in the world by floor area, the Grand Lisboa with 800 gaming tables and 1,000 slot machines, The Sands Macau and the Wynn Macau with more than 350 gaming tables and an eight-acre man-made lake which includes Sky Cabs flying overhead.

Inside the neon-bubbled Wynn, there is enough international zaniness for even the furthest flung tourist. But casinos like this are the opposite of what travel is about, flying you halfway around the world and dropping you off in protective luxury with other foreigners. I didn’t travel all this way to arrive at Bluewater. The Wynn Macau is the ultimate shopping mall with only the most expensive retail units, no Primark or Sports Direct here. Most of the guests in the foyer were gambling Hongkongers who’d crossed the Pearl River for a few days at the Baccarat tables. Hold on, is it Hongkongers or Hongkonglese? I want to be correct and respectful, but I don’t know the proper terminology. What about a flock of eager male Hong Kong gamblers? Hongkongamblernese?

I was in town for Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants Awards, the ceremony held at the Wynn. During the run-up, I had marked off most of the hotel’s culinary offerings and ventured out for late-night gorging of fried rice with cashews and chicken face at restaurant Cais 22 on the Macau Pier. More traditional Macanese recipes include tacho, a spin on a Portuguese slow-cooked stew combining cabbage with ham and Chinese sausages over the Portuguese chouriço. Another is porco bafassa, a dish of tender braised pork and stewed potatoes with turmeric gravy. With a few of the nominated chefs, including local Tam Kwok Fung from Wing Lei restaurant at the Wynn and the eventual winner of the awards, Gaggan Anand, I found myself snug in the refuge of a bustling table of competing eaters, drinking heavily and attempting to take note of incoming plates.

On my last night in Macau, I met again with Tam Kwok Fung, this time at Wing Lei for what I expected would be a more drilled study of Macanese cuisine on a swaggering stage within the swish of the Wynn. Indeed, Michelin Macanese sparkle dust is on full display, but the menu is more a checklist of Chinese favourites hoisted to new heights. Crispy taro puffs, or woo gok, were some of the most agreeable dumpling-like orbs because they resembled springy, airy croquettes. But more than that, the taste was like a delicious breath that melted away in seconds. They could be considered calorie-free eating, except that the taro is boiled and mashed and fried in great bubbling vats of sesame oil. Thin strips of scallops are applied before a small dollop of Kristal Caviar from Chinese-farmed sturgeon is applied. Woah, lavish much.

There’s a bowl of Macanese-style sautéed clams with coriander that had enough garlic to ensure I was still stinking like a Frenchman come morning, and wok-fried lobster with Sichuan. Considering myself an adventurous diner, I sharpened my chopsticks in anticipation and dived in. With liberal lashings of prickly Chinese ash, my tongue quickly numbed, my gums swelled and my tonsils rattled like one of those cartoon-tooting train whistles. It built into a raging inferno as I began to sweat, holding in a massive fart that would undoubtedly be a huge relief. Fat, bulky, fleshy lobster cuts, offered little comfort. I was hooked, though, and returned again and again for more delicious punishment.

So far, so good, and so standard for Cantonese cooking. Since living in Southeast Asia, I have immersed myself in the epicurean consumption of popular local fare, however seemingly odd to a white foreign washashore. To better understand my new surroundings and those I now called neighbours, I had imbued myself with their dining habits; from starfish to fried tarantula, I put everything in my mouth. It was my time spent in Hong Kong and Macau, however, that I most looked forward to, where their influence and culinary cravings would, I hoped, introduce me to banquets of powdered rhino horn and ribboned tiger cock rather than the standardised Cantonese offering of home. Like so much of the region, Macau’s wildlife trade legislation has been scrutinised, specifically the trade and seizure of turtles and shark fins – an estimated 100 tonnes of shark fins are imported annually, valued at US$97 million. I knew that locating such grizzly grub would take time, and I had neither the connections nor the dubious trading nouce for the markets, where they would no doubt treat me with suspicion.

Then there’s a sudden break in proceedings for what I’m informed is a Shandong classic, and a deep-sea ingredient that would perhaps appease my daredevil culinary cravings: braised sea cucumber. It looked about as exciting as it sounds. A lot of cultures in Southeast Asia regard sea cucumber as a delicacy, favouring its slippery, collagen texture. Some Chinese men even believe it to have aphrodisiac qualities. It certainly looked penis-like, if a little overly barbed, pricked with jellied spikes, like Satan’s cock. Or, more realistically, a thorny, horny dildo for the daring housewife – researching this sent me down a dark rabbit hole (clears browser history).

While the sea cucumber does indeed resemble some prickly pricks, there are other phallic comparisons too, such as its defence mechanism akin to ejaculation as it stiffens and squirts its entrails at the aggressor. This particular one had been imported from Japan’s Kanto region and had a thick, gelatinous casing like a rubber tube. Biting down on it was like munching through a garden hosepipe. As I forcefully chewed, I heard a pop, and a squirt of fleshy innards flushed down my throat like thick, gloopy dishwater, a boggy, soupy mix of viscera and entrails. I can’t see how this has anything to do with appreciative delicacy, hunger, or epicurean communal pleasure. But that’s that; now I’ve eaten sea cucumber. The first and last time.

Cantonese stir-fried abalone with corn, carrots and samphire is a trillion times better, glistening like shiny sequins from the sesame oil, popping orange, yellow and green against the grey sludge tone of abalone. There are between 30 and 130 recognised species of abalone, although the most recognised are Red, White, Black, Green, Pink, Pinto and Flat. They use a mix of Black and Green-lip from Australia, South Africa and Japan here, slow-braising before cooking on full flame in the wok with the melange of other vibrant ingredients.

Porky fulfilment is a recognised and celebrated Asian benefaction in restaurants, and perhaps none more so than suckling pig, called rǔ zhū, having traditionally been associated with Guangdong. It’s said that Chairman Mao ate red-braised pork belly every single day. The Spanish and Portuguese have storied histories with whole-cooked roasted pig, the most popular preparations called lechón (Spanish) and leitão (Portuguese). In French, it’s cochon de lait, although the term has its origins in Louisiana. Despite this dubiety of providence certification, I expect that even the very earliest carnivorous hominids dined on hogs (or, more likely wild boar), the relationship between pigs and humans predating that of any other domesticated food animal. And because this is the Wynn, this little piggy from the market had been shredded with panache, served tableside with minced shrimp and topped with caviar for more puffed-up luxe.

Wing Lei exists as the shiny jewel of the Wynn, one of the casino’s many neon-bubbled restaurants created to showcase the rich heritage and versatility of Chinese culinary influence. It is a celebration of origins, but not Macanese, not solely Chinese either. It is authentically the stuff of rhapsodic Cantonese reverie, explosive bursts with temperamental rising heats across competing textures – some slippery, collagen ones more challenging than others. And with plenty of caviar thrown in for aristocratic elegance, and all of the tables around me glugging fine wines and champagne, the price-tags match such salubrious surroundings – a single serving of the barbecue pig alone is 828 Macanese Pataca, roughly £100.00, and the tasting menu is 1,888 MOP, about £225, for six courses. It is probably, though, the most fun you can have at the Wynn without a Baccarat win. C

Wing Lei, Wynn Macau, R. Cidade de Sintra, Macao
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