Why are you taking me to a sun-baked animal shelter in the middle of nowhere? It’s 120 degrees in the shade, after all.

Yeah, but remember—it’s a dry heat. The Lied Animal Shelter is an example of how Las Vegas is developing into a real city, with our own homegrown, groundbreaking architecture. It was done by a local firm, Tate Snyder Kimsey, and designed in response to a local problem: Because of the transience of Las Vegas residents, we have a lot of lost pets—from feral cats to farm animals—and because we’re in the desert, water is a huge issue. So the architects have addressed these things in an environmentally friendly, very attractive design, with solar panels and a “living machine” to recycle graywater.

Las Vegas seems to be a sprawl of sand, bulldozers, and acres upon acres of tile-roofed housing developments. The oldest architecture in town appears to be bad strip malls. Does Las Vegas even have any real architectural history?

Sure. And we’re fighting to save it. The La Concha is a Paul Revere Williams building, one of the last remaining hotel landmarks on the Strip; in the past four years, we’ve seen so many torn down. The family that ran the hotel is donating it to be used as the Neon Museum. Right now, all the great old YESCO neon is stored in the Boneyard, just on the outskirts of town; it’s a big outdoor lot where all the nice signs go to die. There’s also the Old Mormon Fort, a historical landmark with a new addition by local architect Eric Strain. There’s a cantilevered entrance, and sheets of glass that run through the structure to let light in. It’s another example of how every great city needs to develop its own architectural style. Strain’s showing that, Hey—we’re not just leopard print.

Heading for the Red Rock Casino off the Strip, in the Stepfordesque master-planned community of Summerlin, the first thing I noticed was the signage: It’s in lower-case sans serif type. I thought Vegas was an all-caps town.

The Red Rock is considered a “locals” casino; the term used to mean Sam’s Town, or Binion’s, dingy little places with cheap sandwiches. But Red Rock gets it right: It’s attractive, sexy, and people feel special just being there. It’s not someplace special conceptually, like, Wow, we’re in the MGM Grand, the world’s largest hotel! Instead, there’s Swarovski crystal chandeliers everywhere. The spa has great modern furniture. There are nooks and crannies that you can discover for yourself, so the experience is different each time you go. That’s something you miss out on in the very large hotels.

Where can you go to get a drink in this town?

The Foundation Room at the House of Blues. It’s in Mandalay Bay, and has a fantastic view of the Strip—one of the best views in the city. It’s open to the public on Mondays and has a great collection of outsider art—Jimmy Lee Sudduth, Purvis Young. It’s very comfortable.

Yeah, but the decor at the House of Blues gives me horrible night sweats: I want clean. I want modern.

“Las Vegas is always sunny and beautiful,” says Fogel, with a wry smile. Fogel is a Detroit transplant who owns the modern-design superstore Unicahome with his wife, Bonnie. He’s an upstanding member of the business community, a force for architectural and historic preservation, and a civic booster. But he’s also a smart guy, the kind of deep-thinking forty-something normally found sipping lattes in Los Angeles or haunting museums in New York. But Fogel chose Las Vegas. He evinces genuine fondness for this adolescent metropolis, and evangelistic awe at its untapped potential. He knows the “new” Vegas didn’t spring fully formed from the head of hotelier Steve Wynn; rather, its growth has been fueled by a mass migration of middle-class humanity to the Mojave Desert, who now need places to live, work, and play. On a sizzling summer weekend when Bonnie was out of town, I spent a boys’ day and night out with Fogel, touring the future architectural landmarks and well-designed watering holes of his adopted home. Then get in the elevator and go to Mix—it’s on top of THEhotel at Mandalay Bay. Mix is the first restaurant and lounge where the hotel spent a lot of money bringing in a major-league restaurateur (Alain Ducasse) and a major-league designer (Patrick Jouin). The restaurant’s chandelier is made of 15,000 Murano blown-glass baubles. Every time I look at it, I think, Who the hell’s gonna clean that? But it’s beautiful. The lounge is entirely upholstered—even the ashtrays—and Jouin designed all of the furniture specifically for the space. That never used to happen here. New York, sure. Paris, of course. But not Vegas. Plus, Mix has the best bathroom in all of Las Vegas: When you really want to contemplate life, there’s nothing like sitting on the toilet and gazing out a full-length window at a stunning view of the Strip.

What about restaurants? The old cliché used to be that you couldn’t get a good meal in Vegas, but you could belly up to the buffet with 500 of your closest friends and gorge yourself for $9.99.

I can’t help but stare at those huge, gaudy casino-resort hotels on its famous Strip. Architects and academics use the always-bigger-and-new-improved public façade of Vegas as a tidy metaphor for the American aesthetic palate, the greed, gluttony, and simulacra that push the pleasure buttons of the masses. Only Disneyland merits the same gleeful tarring, but Vegas is a real city. And it’s getting more real by the day. Just ask Hugh Fogel. In the last year or two, we’ve had Joël Robuchon show up (L’Atelier de Joël and the Mansion at MGM Grand), we’ve had Guy Savoy show up (Restaurant Guy Savoy at Caesars Palace), plus many other top-notch chefs. You can have a phenomenal meal—a really, really superlative meal, one of the best meals in the country, if not the world—and pair it with whatever wine you desire. That’s unheard of. It’s mind-blowing. In my business, I talk a lot about exposing people to new ideas and concepts. Robuchon and the others may be thinking the same thing: There’s something exciting about seeing Americans exposed to purist French cuisine. You don’t always have to put a hamburger on the menu.

How about something for those of us who can’t swing $200 prix fixe dinners?

Try the Golden Steer Steak House. It’s over on Sahara. The Rat Pack used to hang out there. They have the big slabs o’ meat, huge potatoes. But the really great part is that you can sit at Buddy Hackett’s favorite table—all those guys have their names on the booths. And the waiters have been there forever, which is also very cool, because everything is so transient here. There’s also a phenomenal Thai restaurant in town that is more affordable. I’d say it’s one of the best Thai restaurants in the country. But it’s my secret. If people want to know the name, they’ll have to come into Unicahome and ask me.