“Look for the red lantern,” instructs the Macao Trading Co. website. This is how you will know you have reached your destination – the Portuguese colony of Macao circa 1952, “a fugitive’s heaven from which there is no turning back.” Awesome. We’re apparently having dinner at Universal Studios tonight.

Last week, we went out on an Immaculate Infatuation blind date. A mutual friend introduced us to two food enthusiasts with whom we share similar tastes and interests, Miss Info and Heather Park. Team Infatuation suggested Macao Trading Co. for dinner based on some recent hype and the promise of an interesting “Chinese meets Portuguese” meal. A Thursday dinner went in the books and we hit the town feeling it. We met our partners in crime at the bar, hit it off immediately, and sat down at our table ready to get into some serious eating.

This review wrote itself so fast; I think I have enough material to make it a three part series. First of all, Macao is a huge scene … everyone in the house is either on an early in the game date, or starting off their night before they hit Pink Elephant. Second, the place is essentially a theme restaurant. There must have been a yard sale after the last Indiana Jones movie and the owners of Macao cleaned out every prop that Planet Hollywood didn’t already scoop up. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised to see a monkey in a shriner’s hat come out and bus the table. The food and service were right about on par with a downtown Ruby Foo’s. We ordered a lot from the menu, many of the dishes suggested by our waiter, and nearly everything was overcooked, over seasoned, and overrated. The shining stars from our meal were the chicken dumplings, and you can get five of those for a dollar a few blocks north on Canal Street. Moral of the story? Next time we let our new friends pick the restaurant.

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While The Infatuation definitely feels more at home slumming it around the East Village, we do enjoy throwing down on classy meals every once in a while. We just can’t afford to do it that often (yet). It’s not like this was our first time to the dance. We’ve eaten – and enjoyed – plenty of white tablecloth, prix fixe menu situations before. This one just so happened to be a disaster. Is it possible that my East Village palate isn’t refined enough to properly critique Corton’s four star foam-happy French cuisine? Absolutely. I’ve spent a total of five days in Paris over the course of my life, can’t speak a word of the language and didn’t understand half of the ingredients on this menu. That doesn’t change the fact that my recent meal at Corton was one of the worst I’ve had all year, second only to the infamous Shang.

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