Ben Richardson examines the sleaze, the promise and the challenges driving this

Two months ago, a group of European tourists and their Hong Kong-based host were at a table in one of the swanky new bars and restaurants that grace Macau's waterfront. The strip where they were relaxing sprang up almost overnight, grafting a stylish entertainment centre on to the unprepossessing area of reclaimed land between the ferry terminal and the Lisboa hotel and casino.

Macau's promoters touted the area as the enclave's Lan Kwai Fong, which was doing it something of a disservice. The bars were better, the prices a fraction of those in Hong Kong, the look was chic. Better still, revellers could spill on to the street outside, or wander over the road to the sea front.

What better symbol of this transformation than the graceful golden statue of Kwun Yam, goddess of mercy, which stares down on the scene with a face full of compassion and tranquility? Then, in an instant, the atmosphere changed. Five or six men, several wearing crash helmets, walked into one of the bars where an American band were playing.

In a matter of seconds the bar was deserted - crash helmets in Macau have a habit of hiding assassins.

Their leader, a short stocky man with black hair cascading from his helmet, walked up to one of the band members and calmly stubbed out his cigarette on the man's bare chest. It was a stark warning over a supposed romantic indiscretion.

The bar, one of the most popular in Macau, shut up shop shortly afterwards, though it has since reopened.

This is part of Macau's problem: like a cheap whore, you can dress it up but when you scratch the surface seediness oozes out.