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It must be said, I was never a fan of Macau.  The last time I visited was almost five years ago, before the City of Dreams and Venetian and all that Vegas jazz.  As you might imagine, I was taken aback when we drove down the Cotai Strip (still undergoing some construction in parts) with the palm trees and main road leading up to something reminiscent of a mini-golf version of Vegas, with the sun blinding you through the small cab windows because no silhouette of skyscrapers decided to block its glare.  I managed to catch a glimpse of street corners with pebblestone pavement intermingling with both the glassy fronts and wooden shutters of uneven, period-clashing buildings, with similarly uneven, cobblestone steps gallivanting in the city scape next to modern, glossy escalators.  I’m not sure whether I liked this landscape; I wasn’t sure whether it was simply confused or capriciously eccentric.  But I wasn’t here for the view, unless that view was set upon some tableware, between a knife and fork, some chopsticks, a little white linen napkin… or maybe even just in between my thumb and forefinger.

And so, cue the pork buns (豬扒包).

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