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Cracked crab and high stakes: The VIP’s life
High rollers are a big part of a casino’s business — and are treated like it
 | High rollers Nick Varano, center, and Ralph Ventola, left, sit with Frank Playo, their host at Foxwood Casino while they eat like kings earlier this summer. |
Douglas Healey / AP file |
MASHANTUCKET, Conn. - Perhaps you've noticed them strolling toward the elevator with their butlers while you wait in the check-in line. Maybe you've seen them, from the 25-cent slots, as they stepped into the VIP room with enough chips to buy a Porsche, a house, or both.
Most patrons will never be ushered to ringside seats or have extravagant dinners laid before them in opulent suites. Such luxuries are reserved for high rollers, the gamblers who represent as much as 50 percent of a casino's revenue and are treated accordingly.
But just for tonight, nod knowingly to the security guard and step past the velvet rope. Come along for a night at one of the world's largest casinos as the guest of one of its most important customers.
The limousine is arriving to pick up Nick Varano at Strega, the restaurant he owns in Boston.
First things first, however. Varano peels off a $100 bill and presses it into his busboy's palm. Two boxes of cannoli from the bakery up the street, he instructs, for the Foxwoods butlers who can't get pastry like this in eastern Connecticut.
Just before stepping into the limousine, Varano, 35, takes the boxes and motions for the busboy to keep the $70 or so in change. The driver puts the pastry in the trunk.
Foxwoods sends a limo to Varano's restaurant three, maybe four times a month. Tonight, a Thursday, he's joined by a few friends: Frank DePasquale, 54, a fellow restaurant and nightclub owner, and Ralph Ventola, 38, who runs a fleet of cars for funerals.
There are two types of high rollers: whales and premium players.
The highest of high rollers, whales might bet $5 million per night. While glamorized in movies, whales are increasingly too risky for many casinos who fear huge losses with a few spins of the roulette wheel.
Premium players don't reach whale status and don't get the biggest casino perks — free Lamborghinis, discounts on gambling losses or shopping money for their wives. But many casinos consider them their most desirable customers.
Varano and his friends are premium players.
"I like to have a minimum of at least $1,000 to $10,000. If I feel that the day's going my way, you know, I don't mind betting $10,000 a hand or more," DePasquale says. "If the day's not going my way, I'll stay as low as $100 a hand. Everything's about rhythm."
Any ultra-rich businessman can drop millions of dollars a few times a year, but DePasquale says the true high roller returns every week, living the high life and playing for high stakes.
Tonight, Varano's plan is to eat like a king, win $25,000 and come back next week.
They're greeted at the casino by Frank Playo, their host. Top players don't call the reservations line. They call their casino host.
Want to see a title fight? Catch a sold-out show? Tee off on a private course? Call the host, whose job is keeping the best customers returning.
Like any good salesman, a host knows his clients' tastes and makes sure they're met without being asked. Casinos spend millions collecting this data and, thanks to corporate consolidation, a regular at the MGM Grand can visit the Bellagio and his favorite champagne will be waiting.
Playo ushers them to the elevator, swipes his card for access to the VIP floors, and shows them to their suite, a palatial flat set in marble. The Red Sox game is on the big screen. The butlers pour the drinks — the usuals — from the in-room bar.
A butler is like a personal concierge. He secures tables at the finest restaurants and has the limo waiting downstairs. He's also quick to meet an odd request. One Foxwoods butler arranged the baptism of a player's baby.
Varano and his friends enjoy a selection of imported Italian meats and cheeses, cracked crab, shrimp and — because the butlers knew DePasquale was coming — a tray of caviar. Then it's upstairs to the gourmet restaurant where chef Scott Mickelson greets them.
"Some appetizers," Varano says. "What do you suggest?"
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Mickelson wears a pager on his shoulder in case of a high-roller emergency. If a seafood lover suddenly announces he's coming, Mickelson can have a wahoo fish head-speared in Hawaii that day and shipped overnight.
The appetizers arrive in stages: oysters and crab on silver tiers, lobster risotto, shrimp, beef and more. It's all complimentary, a small price for their business.
"I can't imagine the way everybody else lives," Varano says.
Ventola is getting antsy. The invite-only casino is calling.
"Frank, wanna come?" Ventola asks eagerly. "Five minutes. Five minutes."
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