It doesn't upset me at all that the glorious, stained, stinking, and sinking Venice, where I often winter, has been airbrushed and shrunk into the $1.5 billion Venetian, fronted by eerily pristine mock-ups of the Clock Tower, the Doge's Palace, and the Bridge of Sighs. A gondolier leans against a marble column in the astoundingly grand lobby, singing an aria. It's a giggle. The soaring "Tiepolo" domed ceiling, painted by New York artists, and the dramatic patterned marble path to the casino aren't silly. They're astounding. Agreed, it's a claustrophobic trundle to guest-room elevators. But every room is a suite with sunken living room, smartly decked out, and in-room fax machines and mini-bars. My trendy pal Cassandra, grousing over the untrendy hordes, sought amnesty in the Canyon Ranch SpaClub below, with its rock-climbing wall, fabulous facials, and fruit slurpies whipped up to order in the Café.

This marble pile (3,036 suites), built on the imploded ruins of the Rat Pack's famed Sands Hotel, boasts an awesome roll call of all-star restaurants, and the new VBar, run by a coven that includes the Lotus duo from Manhattan, Will Regan and David Rabin. Some of the Grand Canal Shoppes remind me of Times Square going-out-of-business emporiums, but I'm tickled by the loving pasticcio of bridges and rooftops, the American gondoliers navigating its truncated canals in pint-size gondolas, and the clever abbreviation of the Piazza San Marco -- minus San Marco itself. And all of it under a bright-blue faux sky.

The Venetian's pride, Lutèce, was in free fall the first time we visited. Overfussy food and insolent service in a Buck Rogers space capsule. It only made me regret that I ever criticized Andre Soltner, the original Manhattan Lutèce's former chef, for his old-fashioned Alsatian ways in that unfussy little Parisian bistro. Four months later, the house has settled. Our waiter is supercilious, not rude. Mint perks up the crabmeat-and-peach salad. Snipped greens freshen asparagus-and-chanterelle risotto. And the New York strip with béarnaise is respectable, the molten chocolate cake actually thrilling, in a dinner that can run $125 per person. But it's still not Lutèce. I'm afraid we will not always have Paris, Bogey.

The morning crew at Stephan Pyles's Star Canyon act as if breakfast had caught them by surprise, and I grind my teeth at being forced to queue up surrounded by empty tables. But we love the Texas breakfast -- huevos rancheros for my guy; for me, scrambled eggs on a biscuit. Later, we watch the gondola traffic from the terrace at Taquería Cañonita (run by Pyles's sister), where quesadillas, tacos, and tamales with delicious slaws both spicy and creamy make a gently priced lunch. Revelers costumed for carnaval amuse the tourists after dark as we settle into Wolfgang's Postrio, jammed as always with seemingly happy campers, in one corner of the piazza. But too much acid in the vinaigrette sabotages my beet salad. The saffron angel hair comes in a hideous clump. And grayish ahi is so tainted by salty soy I can't even eat the bok choy it sits on. I take comfort in wickedly frosted chocolate-caramel torte.

We check in to the brand-new Aladdin. Love getting rained on by the every-twenty-minute storm in the Desert Passage, but get lost in the maze of the casino and have to phone for help. And there's no pretense of pampering in our very beige room -- no evening housekeeping service, and again no fresh sheets the second day "unless requested." So much for the "magic carpet ride" the operator promises as she puts us on hold for the concierge. We are not going to tent again at Aladdin, I fear, not with its Third World concept of luxury.

Weary nomads, wheeling our baggage through all those casinos, we feel like we've spent 40 years exiled in the desert. But now the promised land: Bellagio, Steve Wynn's consummate pleasure dome (also part of the MGM Grand buyout). Maybe Wynn had a Lake Como village in mind, but the theme got lost in an outpouring of $1.6 billion (3,000 rooms) and a Pavarotti-size hunger for perfection. From the live piano in the Petrossian Caviar Bar off the lobby, where a hundred or so outsize Dale Chihuly blown-glass flowers make a crystal-garden ceiling, to the vast Botanical Gardens (replanted seasonally) and the fringed chintz awnings that muffle casino din, Wynn is godlike in the details. Alas, there's a daily $25 fee just to step into the spa. It's also a journey to the tower lifts, but this time there's signage even the myopic can read from afar. Still, I wouldn't mind getting lost in the Via Bellagio shops -- at Chanel, or Moschino, or Gucci. I'd love to be found by some sugar daddy admiring vintage sapphires at Fred Leighton. Luckier babes are still trying on diamonds at midnight.

Our perfectly pleasant double overlooking a parking lot is quite a letdown after that Venetian suite. Suddenly the phone rings. It's an old friend we're hiding from, a Bellagio power. "Is this Ramona Pierce?" she asks, recognizing my Vegas nom de fourchette. "Well, now that you've seen the double and can write about it, would you like to move?" With my weary mate threatening mutiny, I succumb and trade up to a spacious suite with an osprey view of the Strip, our own entertainment center, data port, bar with sink and fridge, and his and her marble baths (in one, a giant Jacuzzi).

Now I'm glad we thought to sneak in earlier and eat anonymously. A lot of fussy tableside business -- tossing the mint-scented-Scotch-bonnet-chili-spiked tuna tartare (marvelous) and de-potting a lobster pot pie on a rolling cart -- keeps waiters on the run at sardine-packed Aqua, a San Francisco clone. Partner-chef Michael Mina is into high-concept -- seared sea scallops and foie gras with blood-orange-and-tangerine marmalade, tuna and foie gras in a Pinot Noir sauce. It works often enough that I'd come back, especially if someone else was picking up the check, easily $150 per person, all told. But soybean coulis and truffle cream are a lot of baggage for langoustines to carry, and there's not much mussel presence in a dull and grainy mussel soufflé.

Gambling cognoscenti would have given you odds that Sirio Maccioni was writing his Vegas epitaph when he decided ties would be required at Le Cirque, but the townspeople seem to like dressing up, and even sacrosanct high-rollers in T-shirts eventually come around. The kitchen hums, contented and consistent. The space is a tiny, silk-tented jewel box with Fabergé details -- by far the handsomest room Adam Tihany has given the Maccionis. And why not? Veteran Marc Poidevin has only 80 mouths to please. Ours are purring over the intensity of white truffle, bits of pea for texture, and a float of crème fraîche in a wondrous cold soup. Tangy chopped tomato sets off the sweetness of perfectly sautéed sea scallops. Once the kitchen gives a bit more fire to the veal chop (we did say rare, not blue), it emerges deliciously caramelized. Except for a stale macaroon, desserts are the usual circus, all swirls and chocolate curls and melting lava.

Between the frigid air inside, the toasty air through the open window, and a little spray from the dancing waters, we're in a catbird seat next door at Circo, sharing a pizza lunch. It's late and quiet, and the large room with its cheerful clown dress is almost empty. The sheep's-milk-ricotta ravioli in butter sage taste just like they do when Mama Maccioni is coaching the kitchen back home. I let my mate polish off the gamberetti with cannellini beans so I can save myself for the house's mythic Bomboloni tre Gusti, the trio of chocolate-, jam-, and custard-filled doughnuts I find it impossible to resist.

Only one Picasso has vanished from the Bellagio's Picasso restaurant since Wynn sold his stake and took his museum of masterworks home. I still get goose bumps being fussed over, sipping my penny-pincher's Chilean Cabernet with a dozen Picassos surrounding me. Not that it feels like a museum. Not with jets of water springing up outside the window, the eccentrically arranged flowers, Claude Picasso's marvelously bold carpet underfoot, and Cindy Adams at a nearby table. Chef Julian Serrano isn't fazed by sharing his spotlight with the art. He's already picked up five stars from Mobil and countless critical raves. I was not moved by Serrano's food at Masa's when he had San Francisco's critics at his feet. Too overwrought for me, as is the amuse-bouche tonight -- tuna tartare with caviar, grated egg, and an overpowering sauce, tucked into an endive spear. I'm not knocked out, either, at this late date by seafood sausage or vegetables lashed together with scallion. But the man does have a way with birds. His impeccably roasted pigeon will be my pigeon standard . . . well, until the next great pigeon lands on my plate.

Sitting here, noticing how much better Cindy Adams looks than poor doomed Dora Maar, I realize that the answer is yes. Yes, you need to see Las Vegas once. But will you make it a habit? I know I'll be back, especially to show it to friends. (Preferably pals with private jets.) But it is still a special taste. As one fan pointed out to us, where else can you bet $10 million, ride a roller coaster, and eat a 99-cent breakfast at 3 a.m.? As the good sage says: Never eat at a place called Mom's. Never play cards with a guy named Doc. And never bet against a man named Wynn.