ParisPokerNut

I always get a kick out of hearing high profile poker players declare it’s not the money that counts, but winning the bracelet. That sounds a bit strange when the essence of the game is that it has to be played for money. Clearly, poker can be defined as a series of monetary challenges as to who holds actual or potential winning hands. Chips are used in lieu of cash as a matter of convenience. True, these newly celebrated players are referring to tournaments where chips cannot be redeemed. Still, with prize money in the millions of dollars, it strikes me as a curiosity to hear players repeat they are competing for a garland of laurel leaves (bracelet) rather than for a lifetime of financial security.

Noble battle, monetary indifference and striving for excellence are traditional aristocratic values. Great Achilles sulked in his tent not because Agamemnon was enjoying the pleasures of the prize originally awarded to him, but because by taking the girl Breisis for himself, the commanding general had abnegated the public recognition of his chief warrior. Exalted Hector recognized duty to self as a man’s primary responsibility, greater even than devotion to family and country. Strange, you might think, that one might compare Mike Matusow or Phil Helmuth with the heroes of ‘The Iliad’, but do contemporary Texas Hold ‘Em players not achieve a degree of magnificence when they, like ancient warriors, strive after the Homeric value of arête?

For nearly two hundred years, financial ease has led more to aristocratic values than birth or education. Balzac said: beyond every great fortune lies a crime. After some vague ancestor has done the dirty work and gained the loot, a young man or young lady can adopt the manners and morals identified with the upper classes. Occasionally, a person with no or little monetary means rises to the crème de la crème, as if to confirm that, however rare, aristocracy and greatness can be inborn. While surely that is not the case with the majority of our current poker stars, the quiet dignity of Phil Ivy or the polished grace of Doyle Brunson indicate that certain champions would have exhibited a patrician bearing no matter what their field of endeavor.

Doubtless most of us who play poker would rather win millions of dollars than gain a bracelet that says in this particular year at such and such a game, I was the best in the world. It’s all a matter of ego, wouldn’t you say? While of course extraordinary men in art, science, politics or the military had great egos, as a rule they knew how to go about their business so that their achievements dwarfed any misguided sense of self. Understatement will prevail over hubris even if many of today’s poker luminaries are loud-mouthed brats with manners fit for a pigsty. Ah, but such is the beauty of the game that the men we most love to hate often undergo a transformation that sees them becoming veritable princes instead of the street rats they once were.

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One afternoon in a game of dealer’s choice, I won a hand that elicited surprise and admiration from nearly every player at the table. While the consensus among my opponents was that I had pulled off a brilliant coup, in truth all I did was commit a lucky error. What made the hand particularly pleasing was the expression of shock on the face of the victim of my stupidity. Universally detested, Charlie the Rat was the most ‘nouveau’ of all nouveaux riches, and pretty close to the richest. Quick to let everyone know how much he spent on jewelry, automobiles and women, the man would rather have been hit by a bus than treat you to a cup of coffee. If astute at business, he was proud to admit he was lacking in culture. Music to Charlie was the sound of machines in his factory grinding out buttons, while a book was something a judge threw at a person who got into trouble. As detestable as he was, in a way you had to admire the bastard’s frankness.

We were playing at the Lido, not on stage of the world famous cabaret but in an office on an upper floor. By placing a collapsible round board on top of a desk, a group of local businessmen had converted a conference room into what they called a poker parlor. A dozen metal chairs served as furniture, along with two waste paper baskets and a small refrigerator. All successful merchants, the game’s organizers were fairly well off, but nary a one of them was willing to cough up the few extra dollars needed to provide a minimum of comfort. Their only extravagance was cards. Hundreds upon hundreds of unopened decks were neatly arranged inside five large cartons of discount purchased playing cards.

The deal came to Charlie. The unbelievable cheapskate asked us if we weren’t fed up playing Texas Hold ‘Em all the time.

“If you want to play a game of luck, play baccarat,” he said.

What he did not say was that draw gives the dealer an advantage in position. Seated seventh of nine, that was pretty good for me. Charlie mumbled something I didn’t catch. I am sure whatever he said was negative. He was always carping and complaining. His habit of contesting any hand he lost got on everybody’s nerves. If he had not been so wealthy, the organizers would have kicked him out long ago. They were dreaming if they thought they would ever see a penny of his fortune.

It was hot in the crowded room. I was half asleep. A while back I decided to stop playing at the Lido. The only reason I was there was to recruit two of their wilder players for one of my other games. That was not going to be easy. A sucker is a game’s greatest asset. Those Lido bastards weren’t going to give up on their patsies without a knockdown, drag out fight.

None of the first six players opened. That was a good sign. We were playing low to high, or so I thought. I was dealt a pat straight. If Jo in the eight seat and Charlie in last did not open the game would revert from lowball to poker.

“Pass,” said Jo.

“Open at poker,” said Charlie. “Four hundred fifty francs.”

“Poker?” I said to myself. “The man said poker! Of course it’s poker! How stupid can you be, you ass? We’re playing high to low, not low to high. That tightwad son of a bitch Charlie knows it’s easier for the dealer to steal the antes at high than it is at low.”

None of the first six players came in. Maybe they had lousy cards, or maybe they didn’t want to risk $90 on Charlie. What did I know? It was my turn to bet and I was not about to give Charlie a chance to invoke the immediate-raise rule.

“Eleven fifty,” I said. A raise of $140 wasn’t much, but I was inviting the rat to follow.

Charlie did not hesitate to come in. For all I knew the bastard might have had a half decent hand.

“How many cards?” he asked.

“None,” I said smugly.

The rat nodded knowingly. His forehead was wrinkled and his lower lip was protruding.

“Two for me,” he said, “and chip on the blind.”

“I’m all-in,” I said, pushing my chips into the pot.

Charlie did not bother to look at his cards. Sure of himself, he announced he was paying.

I laid down my six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Poor Charlie! The color drained from his face. His eyes dilated and his mouth dropped open. His trip jacks had lost six thousand francs to my pat straight.

“What is the meaning of this?” he said. “What is wrong with you? How the hell could you pass in seventh position?”

“I had no choice,” I said. “I was not sitting eighth.”

Many years later I saw Charlie’s obituary in The Figaro. Once again I remembered the shocked expression on his face. He never found out that I had not opened that hand due to a misunderstanding. Happily, he made it easy for me when he declared he was opening at poker. Had the rat simply said: “open,” he would have died a few thousand francs richer.

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For a long while our afternoon poker game in Paris seemed to be going nowhere. Day after day the same eight or nine participants showed up with an attitude of passing time rather than enjoying the challenge of creative poker. Of course that was better than no game at all. Still, I suspected if things didn’t pick up, poker might die a slow death. Happily, Alain Bertier, Grandpa Pepe, and Roland the Corsican’s consistent losses were sufficient to keep us crawling along at a snail’s pace.

The game became duller still when our female player, Jacqueline Sels quit drinking. High on whiskey, her raucous stories and sarcastic barbs were a source of constant amusement. Now, she was going to stick to bottled water. At first, I thought it was drinking that caused her to quit Jerry and Carla Pritkin’s night game. Resisting alcohol is far more difficult in the wee hours of morning than it is in late afternoon. But then it came out that her consumption of alcohol had nothing to do with her decision. She was furious with a player who was a permanent fixture chez les Pritkins. Apparently Dr. Louis Mellot was fooling around with Eva, Jacqueline’s eighteen-year old daughter.

“Two pairs,” says Crybaby Freddie. Although he promises daily to stop playing he is invariably amongst the first to arrive at Madame Nicole’s café/bar.

“How high,” says Rollo the Corsican?

“You stupid Americans,” says Pepe. “When you finally had a half decent president what did you do but kick him out?”

“Tens over fours,” says Freddie.

Roland throws his cards away. “Better than my nines over eights.”

“You see,” Bertier says to Freddie. “You don’t lose every close hand.”

“Didn’t we go through all that a long time ago?” I say to Pepe.

“Pepe is right,” says the dentist, Arthur Sisse. “Nixon was a great man.”

“Who cares about politics?” says Jacqueline. “When am I going to find a new man?”

“Oh mother, please!” says Florence, Jacqueline’s younger daughter. From time to time Mama brings the sixteen-year old girl along as a spectator.

“Whose deal is it?” asks Claude Stahly, the other dentist at the table.

“Methinks it is the lady’s,” says English professor Pierre Pegon, employing the language of Shakespeare.

In first position I open a hand with three aces. Sandbagging is not my specialty. Suddenly my eyes fall on Bertier. That’s strange! In an effort to appear nonchalant, the art dealer is looking at the ceiling. Smiling coyly, he drops his cards on the table. It is unlike Bertier to feign indifference when he is not holding a good hand.

Pepe, Sisse and Roland fold. Weepy Freddy comes in timidly. Stahly lets out a farting sound to let us know he is not playing the hand. That’s the extent of his humor. I look over at Pegon. Seated next to Bertier, he is squirming in his chair. From my vantage point at the end of the table I see why the teacher is uncomfortable. Behind them, Florence has stretched out her legs. Slowly, Alain Bertier has dropped a hand and is caressing the young lady’s calves.

Jacqueline is drinking directly from a Perrier bottle. Shaking a finger, she indicates that she is folding. Fortunately, her view of Florence is blocked. Unable to come to terms with Louis Mellot’s fondling her older daughter, what would she think about Bertier touching her baby?

“Not only did he open the door to China,” says Pepe, “he brought about détente with the Russians.”

“Two cards,” I say. “Nixon was the only one who could pull détente and rapprochement off. You forget: for twenty-five years he led the opposition against both.”

“One card,” says Freddie.

Holy cow! I catch a fourth ace. Oh no! Will you look at that? Florence is touching the back of Bertier’s neck. His hand has disappeared under her skirt. The damn fool had better watch himself. Since Jacqueline has been on the wagon, she is more attentive to what’s going on.

“You tell ‘em, Pepe,” says Pegon. “De Gaulle started to kick the Yanks out. It is up to us to finish the job.”

“Why not begin right at this table?” says Claude Stahly.

Bertier pays no attention to their banter. His face is blissful. I tell you, one of these days the bastard is going to go too far.

“You damn idiots,” says Freddie. “Must you pick today to talk about politics? Here I’m holding four jacks and that American jerk doesn’t know it’s his turn to bet.”

“Four jacks?” I say. “I’ve got four aces.”

“You see, you see,” Freddie cries out. “Now will someone believe me?”

Bertier brings his hand away from Florence. He rubs his nose. Shifting in her seat, the young girl is looking directly at her mother.

“What is it, Cherie?” says Jacqueline.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No one but me,” Freddie moans to himself.

“Cut out your constant bawling, will you?” says Sisse. “You haven’t given up a single chip when you should have lost your entire pile.”

“Who else can lose with four jacks?”

“We should talk about politics more often,” says Pepe. “It keeps the American distracted.

“That’s not why I missed my bet,” I say.

“Where’s Bertier gone off to?” says Jacqueline. “I’ve never seen him so quiet.”

Bertier attempts a weak smile. The deal comes to me. What the hell caused
Pepe to think of Nixon after all this time? That’s the French for you. Unfailingly, they remain loyal to the sole American president forced out of office.

“Let’s try to play a little faster,” says Roland. “You all seem to be asleep.”

He is right. We are moving at half our normal speed. As a group, we have been playing together so long we have become like an inbreeding family.

Florence stands up. Straightening her skirt, she moves away from the table.

“Cherie,” says her mother. “Bring me a glass of whiskey, will you? Just a small one to get rid of this taste in my mouth.” Jacqueline throws back her head and laughs. “Not too small, mind you,” she says.

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I was playing a dice game called Yam with Alain Bertier when a slim elegant gentleman wearing a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses came into his boutique. Bertier eyed him briefly before urging me to get on with the game.

“Make yourself at home, Monsieur,” he said to the gentleman. “Call me if you need any assistance.”

I was reluctant to throw the dice. Not because I was thinking of poker. More than an hour remained before the other players would arrive.

“What are you waiting for?” said Bertier.

“Alain, are you aware that one of the most important people in Paris is inside your boutique?”

“What do you take me for, an idiot?”

“Now that you mention it . . .”

“Make it snappy,” he said. “It’s your throw.”

“You must be mad. What about him?”

“You have no more sense of commerce than my wife,” he said.

“But that is Yves Saint-Laurent.”

“Keep your voice down. He is an extremely private person who does not like to be fussed over.”

The fashion designer remained in the gallery for half an hour before Bertier approached him gingerly. Conversing in hushed tones, the two examined a piece of glassware Alain removed from a cabinet.

“He’ll be back,” Bertier said after Saint-Laurent was gone. “Anybody wanting to buy art nouveau glassware is obliged to pass by Le Grand Bertier.”

Early shadows floated over the city. I looked at my watch. Bertier continued to fondle the glass sculpture admired by Monsieur Saint-Laurent. A Japanese couple entered the shop. Bertier nodded a greeting but paid them no attention.

“They are not clients,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“I can tell. Stop talking and start playing.”

We began a new game. As usual when I was winning, Alain wanted to double the stakes.

A laborer wearing a workman’s smock walked into the shop carrying a heavy bronze horse. Bertier told him to put the statue on his desk. That crowded the dice action, but the art dealer wanted to look the horse over. Satisfied, he slipped a few bills into the workman’s hand. He retrieved the dice and rolled five sixes in a single toss.

“Mark that in the Yam box,” he said, pointing to the lower right corner of the score sheet.

“How the hell do you do it?” I said. With a single roll of the dice he had recovered all his losses.

Tom Filer came in. Even though he and Bertier were arch rivals, they remained in close contact. The American was carrying the ‘Gazette de Drouot,’ the weekly magazine that announces art sales and auctions throughout the country, as well as the previous week’s results.

The two dealers went off to a corner. The American pointed to a picture in the Gazette. Bertier shook his head. Filer raised his voice. Standing toe to toe, the pair looked like boxers at a weigh-in. Again Filer pleaded his case.

“Nothing doing,” said Bertier.

“You’re a damn fool,” said Filer.

He glanced at me then looked away. Neither he nor Bertier wanted an outsider listening in. I kept a blank expression on my face, but I knew what they were up to. The American dealer was trying to arrange what is called a ‘revision’ in French and a ‘knockout’ in English, a tactic in which two or more dealers agree not to bid against one another at a public auction so that one of the parties may obtain an object at a bargain-basement price. Afterwards, he will pay off his fellow dealers, but at a cost far lower than had the bidding not been arranged. At times, members of the auctioneer’s team are co-conspirators. An expert can estimate an object at less than its true value or the auctioneer is capable of dropping his hammer prematurely. Either way, the seller comes up short. Or the converse might take place. Dealers, experts and auctioneers can equally contrive to bid an object up so that the seller, assuming he is one of the happy few, ends up getting more than he rightfully deserves.

Filer was barely out of sight when another American came into the shop. A frail man with a high-pitched voice, his face wore a yellow pallor that made him look like he was recovering from a tropical disease. Overdressed in a long winter coat, his eyes were rheumy and small. As soon as he set foot inside, he went to the bronze horse on Bertier’s desk.

“Alain,” he said in a surprised tone of voice. “This piece is not signed.”

Bertier opened his mouth but was unable to speak. His Adam’s apple danced along the edge of his throat.

“What, what are you doing here?” he said, stuttering.

The American continued to study the bronze. “Really, Alain, I do not understand.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Bertier said with difficulty. “You said you were coming Friday.”

“What difference does that make?”

“It would have been signed by then.”

The man left the boutique. A minute later I followed him into Madame Nicole’s bar next door. He told me the horse he had expected to find was sculpted by P. J. Mene and should have borne the artist’s signature before his death in 1877.

Bertier came running into the bar. His eyes were afire and his face was angry. Without a glance at the American collector, he grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.

“Whatever you see or hear around here, you bloody keep to yourself,” he said. “Is that understood?”

“It is,” I said.

He kicked the door to his shop open. The telephone was ringing, but he did not pick it up. I noticed the bronze on his desk was no longer there.

“Get inside and sit down,” he shouted. “We haven’t finished our game.”

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One afternoon a tall man with a fair complexion came into the bar where our afternoon poker games took place in Paris. Smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and a bright red tie, his long brown hair ended in a ponytail. He had light blue eyes and a small crooked mouth. A pair of ash blonde mustaches curled from his upper lip to his cheekbones.

“You’re Bill, aren’t you?” he asked me.

I said I was.

“I’m looking for the photographer, Herve Simeon,” he said. “I’m Bertrand Gimont. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

I admitted I had. More than once Simeon and Pedro da Silva had mentioned his name. Apparently, probity was not the man’s long suit.

“Are you expecting Simeon this afternoon?” he said.

“Not really. You can never tell with him.”

“He’s trying to stiff me for 35,000 francs. That’s seven thousand in your money.”

“When did he lose that?” I asked.

“Sunday. He lost a lot more. He says he’ll pay the others, but not me.”

I did not like the way he spoke out the side of his mouth, or his habit of sucking on his teeth. Clearly the man had seen too many gangster films.

“You can be sure Simeon will stiff you too.”

“I doubt that,” I said.

“Wait and see.”

“No way,” I said. “He feels comfortable with us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said.”

“So that’s his game, is it? He’s telling everyone I cheated him."

“He never said that to me."

Gimont nodded knowingly. I declined his offer for a cigarette.

“Maybe we can work something out,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If he wins in your game, you can put the money aside for me.”

“You know I cannot do that.”

“All right,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll have to do it my way.”

Motioning with my head, I called to Madame Nicole and pointed to the door. The damn fool had exposed the butt of a pistol. The bar owner looked at me with a strained expression. With my thumb and forefinger I made the sign of a revolver.

“You,” she said sharply. “Out of here. There will be none of that in this bar.”

Nor would we poker players tolerate any criminality in our games. A wannabe hoodlum such as Gimont was in no way amusing. His tough guy approach was a demonstration of how not to act when faced with a loser who refuses to pay. There was no surer way to alienate the local bourgeoisie. The French might pretend to be attracted to gangsters and sharpies, but nobody would care to find a genuine underworld character sitting at his table.

Many years later Gimont left Metropolitan France and settled in Guadeloupe. He purchased a second hand yacht that he scrubbed and painted until it looked like new. A fellow who remained in touch with him said the man lived for his boat. He learned where fish were running and how to pick up an occasional charter. He and his boat were always available for young ladies hoping to find a Caribbean adventure. Neither poker nor money interested him any longer. When not at sea, he was content to spend his time polishing and repairing his prized possession.

One afternoon the boat was not in its berth. Gimont went into a state of shock. He tried to recall if he had made an arrangement with another skipper when he had drank too much rum. Neither the harbormaster nor any of his fellow yachtsmen had any idea where the boat could be. There was no sign that a line had been cut, and no witness to foul play. For all anybody knew, Bertrand’s tub had disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle.

Gimont spent weeks scouring the island. Not a single harbor escaped his scrutiny. On foot or by sea, he examined ever hidden inlet and every exposed or unexposed cove. After a month of searching he returned home empty handed. Not only had he not found the boat, not a soul knew a thing about it.

Gimont took a room in a seedy hotel near the port. Every day he walked along the quays in search of his missing boat. The police were no help. After a while they abandoned their investigation. On a rainy evening, three months to the day following his loss, Bertrand Gimont put a revolver to his head and squeezed the trigger. Although all this occurred many years ago, I have never stopped wondering whether or not he used the same pistol he had shown me that afternoon in Madame Nicole’s Paris Bar.

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Have you noted this particular holiday season that many people are puzzled as to how to express their feelings? Apparently “Merry Christmas” is politically incorrect, while “Season’s Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” are nothing less than cop-outs. In matters pertaining to Christmas, the inmates seem to be taking over the asylum. Between religious fanatics on the one side and their anti-religious counterparts on the other, opposition to traditional salutations is causing confusion, resentment and anger in people unaccustomed to such nonsense.

One group, happily, remains immune to any misguided efforts of thought control. Traditionally nonconformist, poker players have their own priorities, their own semantics and their own set of values. Immersed in a game where language is limited to three basic words – fold, call or raise – poker players do little more than grunt out greetings such as: “have a good one” before concentrating on the next deal. I tell you, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if half the players at a table were unaware of the battles raging outside. For all I know, they are ignorant that it is Christmas.

Few human endeavors are as individualistic as playing poker. As there is no I in team, so no team exists at a poker table. While accumulating money in the form of chips is every player’s goal, it is a one in a million player who tries to do so underhandedly. In what other activity can a person go for a walk while leaving hundreds, nay thousands of dollars behind him with the full assurance that no one will touch a single chip? Where else but at a poker table are monetary goals second to the satisfaction received when exercising proper judgment? Who can be less conscious of trends or movements than a person who has wagered a month’s salary on the turn of a card? Political correctness! You’ve got to be joking. Tell a poker player to refrain from making a string bet, or not to hide large denomination chips behind smaller ones, but don’t tell him what to say on a Christmas card or how to convey his feelings.

Are poker players concerned with anything other than poker? Of course we are, but not during a game. We have family worries and health problems and even money woes. The fact that we are able to dismiss these for several hours is no doubt a double-edged sword. Certainly some of us should be looking for a job or paying bills or taking our wives to dinner rather than matching wits with others of our ilk. But one thing we have is inviolate. While we can accept the absurdity of a deuce of hearts causing us excessive joy or untold grief, in no manner can we tolerate the imposition of another person’s ideas onto our way of thinking or our way of life. So Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Season’s Greetings, Cool Yule and don’t play in games you can’t afford.

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Unlike we Americans who begin preparing for Christmas in early November, the French wait until mid December before unloosening their heavy artillery. That’s easy enough to understand. Rather than frolicking Santas, chubby snowmen and leaping reindeer, the holiday season offers the locals an excellent occasion to manifest their gastronomic expertise. In the spirit of the old Roman festival of Saturnalia that took place annually at the time of the winter solstice, Christmas on the Seine is just another excuse to eat, drink and make merry.

Ave Caesare! Did not the great man himself spend a half dozen years in Gaul? You can read about it in his memoirs. So what if he talks mainly about his military successes? Even the greatest of all Roman generals must have taken some time out to exchange gifts and feast during the few days set aside each year for such activities. Of course that was long before Versailles, Careme and Escoffier bestowed upon their Gothic brethren the ability to create masterpieces out of anything organic. Today, even Spartan Caesar would be hard pressed to deny that he came, saw and gouged himself.

I tell you those Frogs really go all out at Christmastime. In every outdoor marketplace, shoppers are treated to displays of Epicurean splendor not unlike those reserved for Oriental potentates. Earthenware dishes of foie gras line the windows of both gourmet shops and ordinary food stores. Plates of lacquered trout sit beside platters of chicken ‘en gelee.’ Mouthwatering slices of roast duck are covered with candied fruit. Fattened geese, turkeys and capons hang from large hooks while deer and wild boar gaze through glassy eyes. From floor to ceiling, candy shops are stacked with glazed chestnuts, chewy nougat and chocolate truffles. Boiled lobsters, whole or split, occupy beds of lettuce dappled with homemade mayonnaise. Placed in wooden crates and wicker baskets, oysters wrinkled or plain, flat or deep shelled tempt the palate with a tinge of brine. Feathers and fur yet un-removed, hares, rabbits, pheasants and partridges are crammed onto countertops. In steamy bakery windows, rectangular cakes and round Christmas logs exhibit flavors and colors that joggle the senses. Sculpted by confectionary wizards, vanilla, chocolate, marzipan, mocha, cherry and pistachio pastries form tiers of freshly spun sugar. Tangerines, hazelnuts, litchis and almonds are strewn across the fruit seller’s floor. Honey covered hams and spit-roast guinea hens fill the air with aromas difficult to resist. Food and more food greet the eye all over town. From Christmas to New Year’s the entire city becomes a great banquet hall, a fairytale land to eye and palate. I'm telling you, If I didn’t know better, I would be tempted to say that Noel in Paris is the one time of year the French outdo Las Vegas casinos.

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Is it possible for a player to lose with four aces? Of course! Many of us have seen it happen. What about losing with a straight flush? Personally, I’ve never witnessed it, though of course theoretically it can occur. Indeed, in Texas Hold ‘Em, how would you feel holding the seven of spades when the board displayed the eight, nine, ten, jack of spades and your opponent just went all-in? He might have the ace of spades or he might have the queen. Then again (fat chance!) maybe he has zilch but is hoping that you are not holding the queen. Okay, last question: can a player lose with a royal flush? “No way,” you’re inclined to reply, “that is the one hand that cannot be beaten.” Well, you might be wrong. It depends on where and with whom you are playing. Poker, after all, is a game of conventions, not of rules. In France, where I spent 30 years playing, a gentleman at my original table let it be known that no hand should be considered perfect. Everyone must be vulnerable. Thus, he concluded, a royal flush confronted by four deuces would come in second best. Since this seemed perfectly logical to our particular group of Descartes’ heirs, nobody contested the idea.

Of course we were playing draw poker at the time. Later, when lowball took over, nary a soul bothered to point out that the perfect hand (ace-two-three-four-six in our case) did exist, defying the belief that no player should be allowed to hold cards that could not be beaten. By the time Texas Hold ‘Em became the belle of the ball, perfection and reality had become intertwined. No different than anywhere else, everybody hoped to hold the nuts. Don’t ask me what would have happened if a flop included a pair of deuces and ten-jack-queen on suit with player X holding the other two ducks, and player Y holding the missing king-ace. The French might not like fisticuffs, but they can stretch a verbal confrontation to limits unimaginable on this side of the ocean.

In the long run we all play some sort of odds. If not card odds, then pot odds or edge odds or some other intangible that will effect our decisions to fold, raise or follow. Naturally, experience (deja vue) also affects our judgment. While this is all well and good in games run by respectable parties such as Las Vegas casinos, what happens in a private game when everything suddenly seems to run amok? Add one skillful mechanic (card manipulator) into a game and out of nowhere a plethora of losing flushes, full boats and fours of kind will turn those odds in your head into so much gobbledygook. I guess, suspecting that a good thing can’t last very long this sort of card shark is unconcerned that his prestidigitation will quickly bust a table. Inevitably, greed will outweigh intelligence. Even if it is his confederate (one of your pals) rather than the manipulator himself who is raking in most of the dough, sooner or later the table will collapse. In our case in Paris (details to follow in later blogs), the ‘mechanicien’ was an inveterate horseplayer who needed quick cash to pay off his debts. By the time we caught him (by sheer coincidence) it was nearly too late. Few of us felt like playing poker anymore. We were saved more by summer vacation than by a Polaroid snapshot catching the thief red-handed. Never, during his five-month stint did any of us suspect that the unusual run of cards that occurred whenever he was present was due to skillful fingers rather than a mathematical aberration. To be sure, such unpredictability is part of the beauty of poker. When Phil Helmuth makes an asinine remark such as: “take away the element of luck and I would win ever hand,” he is denigrating the game he – we – all love so much. If impossible situations did not arise we might just as well play Go Fish. Just don’t let them happen too often or you might discover they were not so impossible after all.

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One of the advantages of having a foreign spouse is that you get to learn new words and expressions all the time. Like with my German wife, commenting on my case of budenkoller. What is budenkoller? Doubtless a literal translation would be: ‘chamber wrath.’ On the Rhine or Oder, a bude is a small room, while koller is the Teutonic version of choler, an emotion personified by anger and irritability. It’s the root term for the infectious disease marked by nausea, dehydration and bile. More common to Anglophonic Ich, the expression stir crazy embodies the feelings brought about by a period of confinement due to illness, injury or penal servitude, sort of like the ones I have been experiencing since having been locked into a heavy plaster cast. Stir = jail; crazy = a person who prefers the melancholic angst of a Russian basso to the spontaneous joy of a Mozart tenor.

Sit in a room long enough and you too might take more pleasure conspiring with Ivan the Terrible than rooting for brave Tamino. So, leaping to my feet, I caught hold of myself and said: “Man, you gotta get out of here. Quick, like a bunny. I mean, schnell, vite, subito and pronto, before you crack into pieces.”

But I can hardly raise myself without going through a series of marionette-like motions. Grab left elbow with right hand. Position one foot six inches away from the other and slightly forward. Bend knees. Spring upward on the balls of both feet. Holy God, keep me from falling backwards! Bravo, baby, you have managed to stand up. Now what? On my own I have no more chance of moving around outside this apartment than I do of performing Otello at The Met. Reality quickly sets in. What is reality if not resistance? Too many factors are keeping me from going from Point A to Point B. Good Lord, what is wrong with me? It’s a broken arm, not a broken leg. Olympic paraplegics are more mobile than this. No, man, it’s something else. I’m beginning to think I like the idea of budenkoller. Where else can one lie back and dream of diamond flushes and apple orchards, of Tartes Tatins and Johnny Chan, of long-horned cattle and Texas doilies, of Maria Callas and whooping cranes, of Il Re de Pontus and supersystems, of pulling to a double belly buster and café au lait, of Buffalo Bill and wild strawberries, of Dom Perignon and broken bones, of winning the world series of poker on sacred ground, in Camelot or perhaps The Wynn, at The Rio or on Fremont Street, or in casinos not yet conceived of by the minds of occasional players or confirmed professionals? Ah yet were I to remain an invalid a thousand more years, I could not encroach on my wildest dreams. Stir crazy, who me? Not at all! If anything, I’m just beginning.

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Attitude is everything. Well, almost everything. Anyone would prefer to hold aces and kings in a docile mood to rags when feeling like an angry tiger. So yesterday, nine days after breaking my arm, I stopped off at The Palms to try my hand (the good one) at no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em. Which brings me to the conclusion that, if not everything, attitude means an awful lot.

I just couldn’t get with it. Vince Lombardi’s dictum: “winning isn’t the main thing, it’s the only thing,” seemed as misplaced as a Strauss waltz at a rock concert. Constrained from stimulating the action, I limped in with hands that merited a raise. I felt like a wounded stag surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs. When not nipping at my ankles, members of the pack went straight for the jugular. Naturally, I lost hand after hand. Okay! We all know there are times one can do nothing about that. The problem was, I just didn’t care. When some smart ass hit a flush on the river and wiped me out, I smiled and offered him meek congratulations rather than hypocritically proclaiming “nice hand” while preparing to remove the bastard’s heart from his chest. I kept eyeing my opponents with a feeling of weary indifference. Man, that is no way to play poker. Even if one’s cards are not good enough to attack with, at all times a player should be prepared to take over the action with a major or an all-in bet.

It is said that age makes one less aggressive. Something to do with hormones, a decreased testosterone level or another glandular function that transforms a raging warrior into an elder statesman That might be, but why then are so many female players kicking ass today? Could it really boil down to a question of what’s in one’s head and what’s in one’s heart? Is there actually something in the oft-repeated idea that a winning attitude generates winning cards?

Leaving The Palms a few hundred dollars poorer, I vowed to never again play if losing didn’t upset me a little. Even if I win $100,000,000 at lotto, I have no intention of giving money away graciously at a casino. There are other and better places for that. This game of poker is a microcosm of the game of life. If you are going to cook a meal, or write a blog or ski down a hillside, do it with determination and enthusiasm. Under those conditions, a losing day is a mere setback that can easily be rectified. I guess Mr. Lombardi knew what he was talking about after all.

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Yesterday on a visit to the Ramparts Casino in Summerlin, about 10 miles from The Strip, I fell down and broke my arm in three different places. While the pain is considerably less today, it remains bad enough to make typing difficult. I’m telling you I’d rather lose four aces to a straight flush than go through that experience again. Tomorrow morning I have a visit scheduled with an orthopedic specialist. Accordingly, I won’t be blogging until Tuesday 12/13 at earliest. Worse still, it looks like I’ll be grounded from poker from six to eight weeks. You might not miss me, but I will miss you. Email sympathy notes and other fan mail – negative or positive - will be welcome as follows: blmor@aol.com. Au revoir for the moment, but not forever.

Parispokernut

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Last night I went to Mandalay Bay again. Wait a minute! That sounds like the opening line of a book. There was a film too, directed by Hitchcock, starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. Yes, “Rebecca,” a novel by Daphne Du Maurier. But I don’t have it quite right. “Last night I dreamed I went to Manadalay again.” That’s how it went. No, not Mandalay, it was Manderley. That’s the way it goes.

There is no Manderley in Las Vegas, but there is a Mandalay Bay. Of all the mega resorts adorning Las Vegas Boulevard, the Mandalay is southernmost on the Strip. Exquisite looking from the outside - two golden towers rising majestically – it is equally impressive on the inside, even if the gaming room does seem a bit overcrowded. Along with the MGM Grand, the Wynn and the Bellagio, the best restaurants in town are in the Manadalay Bay. While dinner at the Aureole (Mandalay), Picasso (Bellagio), Robuchon (MGM) or Alex (Wynn) might cost you a month of mortgage payments your taste buds will be treated to an unforgettable experience.

So I went to the Mandalay Bay last night, only a week after I had stopped off for a drink with a friend from Miami. This time I wanted to check out the Texas Hold ‘Em games, while my friend Pedro da Silva was waiting to try one of the eponymous specialties in their celebrated Hamburger Bar.

“On the road to Mandalay,” I recited, “where the flying fishes play, and the dawn comes up like thunder outa China ‘cross the bay.”

“Huh?” said Portuguese Pedro, eying me queerly. “What China? What bay?”

“It’s a poem by Kipling. The English once controlled Burma, you know?”

“Hong Kong, too,” he said. “We kept them out of Macao.”

“Well you won’t keep the Yankees out. Or rather, the Chinese won’t. Steve Wynn is building a billion dollar resort in Macao.”

“He’ll have a client for each dollar. No nationality gambles as much as the Chinese.”

The director of the poker room told us that anybody wanting to play no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em at the Mandalay Bay had to buy in for $200.

“What if I’m losing?” asked Pedro. “Can I buy in for more?”

“No, sir. It’s $200 period. Of course if you have less on the table, you can bring it up to two hundred.”

“What about the minimum?” I asked.

“Same thing.”

“You mean it’s two hundred either way?”

“You’ve got it.”

“That’s crazy,” said Pedro. “A player can be losing thousands of dollars and still be restricted to buying only $200 worth of chips.”

“It’s the same at two-dollar-five dollar tables at the Bellagio.” I said. “Come in for two bills or don’t play. Only the Wynn and Binion’s have no maximums.”

“Why is that?” asked Pedro.

“I don’t know. I guess the others want to avoid wealthy wise guys from buying in for tens of thousands and muscling everyone else around. Still, you’d think they would have some sort of spread.”

“Let’s go eat,” said Pedro.

We supped on the specialty of the house. Pretty good burgers, I’d say. At nine dollars apiece I should hope so. Actually, they cost more than that. Our requests for cheese, bacon and other garnishes added to the cost. Cocktails and beer brought our tab up to $70 with tax and tip. We skipped desert. Since neither Pedro nor I wanted to be restricted by the house’s limited poker policy, we took a taxi to where I had left my car. That set us back another ten bucks. Pedro wanted to play Texas Hold ‘Em at a casino where the $2-$5 table buy-in was between one hundred and five hundred dollars. I figured I might as well go home. Still hungry, I stopped off at a Burger King on Tropicana Avenue where for $1.71 I gobbled down a double bacon cheeseburger with pickles and lettuce. You know what? It was the best meal I had all day.

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One similarity to poker playing and police work is that each requires a lot of patience. Any detective will tell you he spends far more time in observation than in confrontation. Plod along plod is the modus operandi, be the person a professional dick or a regular player in Las Vegas card rooms.

Timidity and discipline defined yesterday’s one-two no-limit game at the MGM Grand. Playing a hand was almost a chore. Boredom, ennui and yawns were the afternoon’s keywords. With five immovable rocks pitted against five stationary boulders, you would have thought betting was criminal.

I guess most competent players are aware that when one’s opponents are playing wide and wild it’s better to lay back and wait for good cards. Contrarily, the time to open one’s game and attempt a few bluffs is when everyone else is half asleep. So I figured yesterday’s game was as good a time as any to play some straddles.

In the world of finance a straddle is a tool whereby a speculator (usually in options) simultaneously takes a long and a short position. Like straddling a horse, get it? One of your legs is on the steed’s right side while the other is on its left. Hopefully, a trend will develop to indicate in which direction your speculation (one would be hard-pressed to call a straddle an investment) is moving. A sharp observer will then close the contrary position and ride the winning side home.

Other than speculation, I have no idea why doubling the big blind in Texas Hold ‘Em is called a straddle. Rather than a hedge, such a move is clearly one-sided. While it serves to stimulate action and to give the participant the final word in betting before the flop is turned, at no time are your legs on both sides of the beast.

The first time I put up this unnecessary over-blind two players came in. While that was only four dollars apiece, it seemed to scare the do-nothing people away. Lo and behold, I was dealt a pair of tens. Adding seventy-six dollars to my unseen bet, I went all-in. Player one dropped out while the other fellow scratched his head. Finally, he decided to call with a suited ace-nine, doubtless because I had twice shown the table I had bluffed winning hands holding cards nobody else would play.

Guess what? I won. No ace, no pair of nines and not a single heart for the man with the itch. Unfortunately, that was that. Although the wise guy on my left said we should all start straddling, nobody else did so. Dunce that I am, I continued to straddle every time I was in position. Of course that was only one in ten hands, but if you add up the sum involved over a period of time – well, you get the picture!

After a while I said to the smart aleck next to me:

“Hey! When are you going to follow your own suggestion?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I suppose you also expect me to put up eighty bucks to protect a four dollar-blind.”

“Was that a mistake?” I asked.

“Let’s put it this way: you won’t catch me going all-in at twenty times my original bet.”

That was good news to me! Oh well, he was no more than twenty-five. I get the impression that young people today are being taught to avoid disproportionate bets. Somebody or some book must be telling them to double up or bet the size of the pot. Build pots up so that you have something to win! As smart as that might seem, it’s not the only way to go. If you do not make an oversized bet, you are inviting other players in. Don’t you want to chase them out rather than let them see the next card? Poker demands variance, in betting as well as in the choice of cards one plays. Stick to formula betting and you might just as well play blackjack, baccarat or craps.

I stopped straddling and asked the card room director to put me up at a higher stakes game. It took over half an hour until a seat at the two-dollar, five-dollar table was available. Just when my name was called, I was directly behind the big blind. ‘Oh well, one more time won’t hurt,’ I thought to myself, placing four blue chips in front of me.

I’ll be Nick the Greek’s great nephew if I wasn’t dealt a pair of ladies. After six players folded, an opponent who was heretofore invisible came limping in. Man, this cat: constipated, bespectacled, a bowtie-clad dodo who could have earned a gold medal for non participation hadn’t played two hands the entire afternoon. So when I went all-in for $65 and old tight-ass followed, I rolled my eyes, looked to the sky and prayed for another queen.

You know what? When a player gets it into his skull that he is going to pay, don’t try to figure him out. I don't have the slightest clue what was on this weird fellow’s mind. Can you believe it? All he had was the ace of diamonds and the six of clubs! Pinch me, baby, am I dreaming? And don’t tell me not to make disproportionate bets, or not to straddle. Because after I won that hand, I went to the bigger table and kept on straddling, and kept on winning.

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I liked the gentleman sitting at my left at yesterday afternoon’s no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em game chez Wynn. He spoke in a soft voice, had a sense of humor and showed me he had a king high flush when I dropped out against him with two high pairs.

“Good fold,” he said. “I guess I was too expensive.”

Whether he was or wasn't mattered little. I abandoned the hand since previously I had noticed him toying with a large gold ring when he held the nuts. As soon as he started rubbing that ring again, I figured I’d better honor my observation. Is anything more fundamental to this game than picking up an adversary’s tells?

A few hands later I won a moderate-sized pot against a young lady who seemed particularly agitated. The look she gave me sent the temperature in the room down several degrees.

“That’s twice you’ve beaten that girl,” said my neighbor. “Ease up on her. Can’t you see she’s a beginner?”

“I saw she was bluffing,” I said.

“How could you pay with a pair of sevens?” she asked.

“Intuition,” I replied. That was untrue. Her pattern of betting made it obvious to me she was holding zilch. On previous hands when sitting pretty her bets were far more sizable.

Two seats to the left of my altruistic neighbor, a gentleman long on chips but short on hair was arguing over a technicality.

“He said ten, not ten chips. That means ten dollars.”

“Correct,” corroborated the dealer.

“That bald headed bastard is at it again,” my neighbor whispered to me. “He loves playing the bully with less experienced players. Nothing would please me more than to wipe him out.”

I said nothing, but I suspected my neighbor was heading the wrong way. In this game it’s a mistake to concentrate one’s efforts on a single opponent.

I won another hand from the young lady when she raised a hand in which I was dealt wired nines. A nine came up on the flop. After she checked, I went all-in. While perhaps my action seemed foolish, it had a dual purpose. She might have thought I was trying to psyche her and pay me, or I might be demonstrating what a fine fellow I was by letting her off the hook.

“Good fold,” I said when she threw her cards away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t follow.”

“That’s a lot of bull,” said Baldy across the way. “You were trying to trick her.”

“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” I replied.

About ten minutes later, Baldy raised the three-dollar big blind to twenty-one dollars. Only the nice-guy next to me followed. The flop came up queen-jack of clubs, ten of diamonds. Baldy bet twenty chips or sixty dollars.

“I’m all-in,” said my neighbor, pushing close to $250 into the pot.

Baldy hesitated before deciding to pay. My neighbor turned over the eight of diamonds and the nine of spades.

“Small straight,” he said with a smile.

The turn was the ace of clubs. ‘What lousy luck,’ I thought to myself in French. ('Quelle mauvaise chance'!) That was about the worst card possible for my pal.

“Hell’s bells!” said my neighbor, thinking along the same line.

“Save your breath,” said his opponent. “I’m neither on a flush nor a straight.”

The river was another ace. There was no doubting Baldy’s victory this time. His trip queens had become a full house.

The fellow on my left let out a string of curse words that would have embarrassed the U.S. Naval Academy after a West Point touchdown. Maybe he wasn’t such a nice guy after all.

“And to that son of a bitch,” he concluded.

I held back from saying anything about his coming in with an unsuited eight-nine after a raise by a notably tight player. Seek ye trouble, trouble ye will find.

Calm reigned at the table for about two and a half minutes. Dealt wired aces, I made a half-assed raise to nine dollars.

“I’m all-in,” said the lone female at our table when, as the big blind, the bet came to her.

Poor girl. She must have had financial problems. Well, maybe not. After all, she had wagered more than a hundred dollars holding jack-ten of diamonds. Not at all her style, such a big bet.

I caught a third ace that I didn’t need. Nothing resembling a jack, ten, straight or flush appeared on the board. The only thing that came up was the young lady’s temper. While her vocabulary was quite different from that of the gentleman on my left, the inflection of her voice was pretty much the same.

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I was enjoying an aperitif at the outdoor terrace of the Café Deux Maggots when a series of loud blasts of an automobile horn interrupted the evening calm. While Alain Bertier was not the sole person in Paris who possessed a ‘La Cucaracha’ claxon, I doubt if anybody other than he would repeat such a frivolity five times. Double-parking his Peugeot convertible, he charged over to where I was seated.

“So that’s how you spend my money,” he said.

He sat down and ordered a double-vodka. He asked for a bowl of peanuts. ‘Bring some almonds too,’ he said, ‘and pistachios if you have them.’ What else could the house provide? Gruyere cheese? Parma Ham? Bertier was never modest when someone else was footing the bill,

“It’s the least you can do,” he said. “That was my money you won this afternoon.”

“When am I going to see it?” I asked.

“Never. I am going to win it back this evening.”

“How’s the art and antique business coming along?” I inquired.

Bertier grinned from ear to ear. “I’m making a fortune.”

“Perhaps you could help a painter friend of mine,” I said.

“I do not deal in contemporary art.”

“What if he has a Rembrandt to sell?”

“Nothing could interest me less.”

“You mean you would turn down a few million dollars?”

“Even if he - or you - had one, I wouldn’t bother with it."

“Why not?”

“That’s not my period.”

The waiter appeared. Before he could set the food on our table, Alain grabbed at the olives and almonds. At the entrance to the Saint Germain des Pres Metro, a mime clad in a white robe stood still as a statue.

“How does he do it?” said Bertier.

“Training,” I said.

“At one time I wanted to go into show business. I was with a troop of actors. That’s how I learned to speak English. We were going to perform at the American airbase at Orly.”

“What happened?”

“It took too long. I went into my own racket instead.”

“And you became ‘Le Grand Bertier’?”

“Le Grand Bertier,” said a voice behind us. “Just the man I want to see.”

Alain looked at his watch. “You’re late, Kruger.”

“Tell me, pal. Did you ever try to drive into Paris on a Friday evening?”

“Where’s the horse?”

“I dropped it off at your house.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do you expect me to carry a forty pound bronze all over town?”

“I won’t give you a centime until I see it,” said Bertier.

“Fine with me. Rendezvous at your place in ten minutes?”

“Is that how long it takes you in a Porsche? I’ll be there in five.”

“In that dump truck of yours?”

“One hundred francs says I beat you,”

“It’s a bet. I’ll give you half a block.”

I sat next to Bertier. With a blast of ‘La Cucaracha,’ he floored the accelerator. Unconcerned by pedestrians or traffic lights, he was soon driving at seventy miles an hour. Kruger stayed on his tail. Try as he might, Bertier could not shake him off. The two drivers wove in and out of traffic, indifferent to the angry shouts of other motorists. Immediately before the Rue de Seine, Kruger’s low-slung sport’s car roared past Bertier’s Peugeot. In the blink of an eye, the Porsche reached the Rue Saint Sulpice and turned out of sight.

“God damn Alsatian!” said Bertier. “I’ll have to take the long way around.”

“Slow down, you maniac,” I said. “Can’t you see he has the faster car?”

Bertier sped past the intersection where Kruger had turned. Racing up the Rue de Tournon, he was soon opposite the Palais Luxembourg. Visibly upset, he paid no attention to my pleas to slow down. Stationed in front of the French Senate, a gendarme made a motion for him to pull over. Ignoring him, Bertier turned onto the Rue Vaugirard, raced across the heavily trafficked Rue de Rennes and continued down the nearly empty Rue Saint Placide. As the speedometer moved all the way to the right, I closed my eyes. Not until Bertier reached his apartment building did I dare open them. Kruger was leaning against his Porsche, pretending to polish his fingernails.

“What took you so long?” he said.

“Come back next week. I’ll bet you a thousand I win.”

“I’ll take one hundred francs right now,” said Kruger.

Madame Bertier was waiting at the entrance of the couple’s apartment. A small, plump woman, her mousy brown hair was set in a pageboy cut, the front of which was highlighted by a streak of blonde.

“What’s all that noise, Alain Bertier?” she said in a scolding voice. “I can hear you a block away.”

“Don’t be a pain, Cherie. I just lost one hundred francs.”

With a frown of resignation, he placed a bill into the Alsatian’s outstretched hand. Suddenly his mood changed. Standing in a corner, a polished bronze horse reflected the light from an overhead lamp.

“Nice,” he said. “Not the top of the line, but nice enough.”

“Don’t try any of your tricks on me,” said Kruger. “I had to drive from Strasbourg to Colmar to find this beauty.”

“That’s the same story you gave me last time.”

“Have it your way. Maybe I should bring it to Mister Filer.”

Bertier grimaced. The American dealer, Tom Filer was his chief competitor.

“How much?” he asked.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“The man is deranged. I’ll give you fifteen.”

“Are you crazy? Look at that patina.”

“Okay, make it sixteen.”

“No way,” said Kruger. “Twenty-two thousand is my last price. Only because it’s you.”

“Eighteen,” said Alain. “I’m grossly overpaying.”

They settled on twenty thousand francs. Kruger got up to leave. The sound of a hissing kettle came from the kitchen.

“Coffee anyone?” asked Claire. “Alain Bertier, isn’t it about time you shaved?”

“No thanks,” said Kruger. “I’ve got a long drive home. Thanks for the hundred francs, pal.”

“Just wait till next time. I’m getting a new car tomorrow.”

“What’s this about a new car, Bertier?” said Claire. “We are overdrawn at the bank as it is.”

“You take care of the house, Cherie, I’ll take care of the bank.”

Alain picked up the ringing telephone.

“Really?” he said. “Right away. You, Bill, let’s get moving. Marcel Lasalle has a painting I want to see.”

“You are not going out again, Alain Bertier,” said Claire.

“Who is Marcel Lasalle?” I asked.

“A dealer. He’s got a good eye.”

“Did you hear me, Bertier?” said Claire.

“Don’t worry, Cherie. I’ll be home in less than an hour.”

“Where is your wife, Billy?”

“Visiting her mother in Germany.”

“You are not playing poker tonight, Alain Bertier?”

“Of course not, Cherie. I’ll be home after I look at that painting.”

Bertier honked out ‘La Cucaracha’ several times on the way to Marcel Lasalle’s. Driving nearly as fast as he had in the race with Kruger, he traversed the Place de la Concorde, crossed the Avenue de l’Opera and drove by the Paris Bourse. In this part of town the nocturnal sidewalks were nearly empty. Bertier narrowly missed sideswiping a truck before he pulled into a side street and parked in front of a driveway.

Marcel Lasalle lived above his tiny shop just off the Rue Montmartre. Dressed in gray slacks and a black sweater, a lock of hair fell onto his forehead. In his hands he held a portrait of a woman playing a stringed instrument.

“It’s an early Tamara de Lampicka,” he said. “1929 or 1930.”

“Who was she?” asked Alain.

“Not was, is. A Polish woman, she married a Russian. She and her husband came to France at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. She must be seventy-five or eighty now. She was very popular in the 1930s. Prices for her paintings are bound to soar.”

“How much do you want?”

“Fifty thousand francs.”

Alain looked out the window. Slowly, he reached into his right front pocket. Without haggling, he paid Lasalle the equivalent of ten thousand dollars.

Bertier threw the painting onto the rear seat of his car. Scarcely exchanging a word, we drove across town to Jean-Paul Alphand’s house where our evening poker game was due to commence. For a change, the art dealer was driving slowly.

“Marcel is right,” he uttered in a low voice. “Her prices can only go up.”

“Why didn’t you bargain?” I asked.

“That, my friend, is a trade secret.”

“What does a Tamara de Lampicka painting usually sell for?”

“I have no idea.”

“You mean you paid all that money for a picture by an artist about whom you know nothing?”

Bertier remained silent. His thoughts were far away.

Today, more than thirty years later, Tamara de Lampicka is considered an important figure in Art Deco painting. A portrait achieved while she was a struggling young artist might sell for over one million dollars. As usual, Bertier’s instincts proved correct. Not that they stopped him from selling the painting several years later. He was satisfied to receive a twenty-fold return on his investment. Besides, his tastes had changed. By the time he sold the painting he no longer considered Mlle Lampicka a first-rate artist.

“It is pleasant decoration, but not great art,” he said.

Very likely his opinion was influenced by the many false Tamara de Lampicka paintings, and the countless reproductions flooding the market, some, no doubt, commissioned by Alain Bertier himself.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

While my friend Pedro da Silva was busy playing blackjack yesterday afternoon, it took me close to an hour to be seated at a Texas Hold ‘Em game at the Mirage. The conversation at the table was focused on money, hardly an uncommon topic on the Las Vegas Strip.

“There is a rumor that Madonna is throwing big bucks away over at The Palms.”

“At what game?”

“Texas Hold ‘Em. What else?”

“I didn’t even know she played.”

“It’s not Madonna. It’s Bill Gates. And it’s not The Palms, it’s Caesar’s.”

“Utter nonsense. Bill Gates plays blackjack at $5 or $10 a hand maximum.”

“That’s what I heard too. He was even thrown out of one of the big hotels since he was occupying a suite reserved for a high roller.”

“Nonsense again. One does not throw the richest man in the world out of a hotel. He was asked to change rooms.”

“Who cares? There’s no money to be gotten from the very rich.”

“Someone once said they are different from you and me.”

“If I were Bill Gates and a hotel made me change rooms I’d buy the damn place.”

“Precisely why you are not Mr. Gates. What the hell would he do with a Las Vegas hotel/casino?”

“He would only be repeating what Howard Hughes did when he was the richest man on the globe. Where did owning all those casinos get him?”

“They named a street after him.”

“No big deal, that. They named a bank after J.P. Morgan when he was the richest man in the world.”

“Morgan was exceedingly powerful, but he was never all that rich.”

“Are you kidding? He was so rich they wouldn’t let him play at Monte Carlo. I mean the casino in Southern France, not the one a mile down the road.”

“They wouldn’t let him play without limits. He would have employed the Martingale System whereby one doubles one’s bet after every loss.”

“A horrible system. All a player does is chase his initial betting unit.”

“True, but if that initial unit is $50,000,000 you can understand why Monte Carlo wanted nothing to do with Morgan.”

“Nor he with them. He was a businessman, not a gambler.”

“Can you imagine being a billionaire in dollars before The IRS existed?”

“The man was worth nothing near that. When he died in 1913 his estate was probated at something in the neighborhood of $80 million.”

“Peanuts!”

“In a way it was. Or so Rockefeller commented. He said: ‘and here all along we thought he was a wealthy man.”

“Gentlemen, please,” said the dealer. “Let’s see some money on the table. A dollar for the small blind and two for the big.”

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Thank heavens John Updike taught us the word redux in his brilliant series of "Rabbit" books. So today, since I am taking another day off, I am titling today's comments: "Renewal Redux." All this because last night, 25 hours late, my wonderful friend of 35 years, Pedro da Silva (see "Marathon Game") arrived in Las Vegas. Pedro is a consummate master of complicating the most simple matter. Although yesterday's delay was not his fault, I was certain in advance it would occur. On my last three trips to Lisbon, Pedro was late - very late - picking me up at the airport. (Like me, Pedro left Paris for his home country after 30+ years). So now I have to show him around town. Since we stayed up till all hours last night drinking wine, we're starting out late. Pedro is a wild blackjack player. Surely playing at the stakes he is accustomed to (in Estoril: $25- $1000 a bet), and for 5 -7 hours a day, any casino on the Strip will be happy to offer him all sorts of comps. Good Old Pedro. At last I will be able to dine at Aureole (Mandalay Bay) or Picasso (Bellagio) or Alex (Wynn)without having to pay my own way. Bon Appetit and more later.

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Besides advocating civil disobedience (in certain instances), Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) also said: “renew yourself each day; do it again and again and forever again.” Pretty good advice, Monsieur! Accordingly, I am taking today off from posting blogs, remembering Paris, playing poker, or repeating whatever inanities I performed yesterday. How wonderful it shall be to discover new frivolities this morning, this afternoon and this evening. Who knows, there is even the possibility I might become a better person. If not, well, there’s always tomorrow and the day after and the day after and, shucks, Mister T- it’s never too late, is it?

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If there is any one point that contestants at a no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em table agree on, it’s the belief that wired aces have a tendency to win little but lose big. I don’t think there is a player alive - or dead - who has not suffered a major loss when holding a pair of aces. Certainly, I never met such a person.

My particular memory of getting ripped apart when holding those two cards occurred one afternoon in Paris. The New York Philharmonic Orchestra was in town. A cousin of mine was performing. Not only did I have front row tickets, the orchestra was playing one of my favorite pieces. As was permitted, I said at the beginning of the game that I would be leaving an hour before quitting time.

“We’ll be glad to see you go,” said a smart aleck who harbored no love for me.

At seven o’clock, I was ahead by eight thousand francs. That was sixteen hundred big ones.

“Last hand for me,” I said.

We were ten players. Seated next to last, I casually picked up a pair of black aces. The convention we employed at the time consisted of the dealer putting up fifty francs ($10) and the first player blinding twice that amount. One player called. That put a total of fifty dollars in the pot when my turn arrived.

“All-in,” I announced.

You can be sure Monsieur Smart Ass snickered at the absurdity of such a bet. That was no concern of mine. Far more disconcerting was the person on the blind. Eric kept examining his cards with a curious half smile plastered on his face. For a good fifteen seconds he sat there without committing himself. Finally, pushing his chips into the pot, he said he was calling.

“You know what I’ve got,” I said.

“Don’t we all?” said my heckler.

My opponent laid down a six and a two of diamonds. We sure had a lot of loose players back then. Eric was no more than thirty. He was single, soft-spoken and decidedly handsome. Everyone liked him. Not because he lost consistently, which he did, but because he never carped, complained or caused a problem paying. An only child, he was being groomed to take over the family’s manufacturing business. Don’t ask me what they manufactured. Whatever it was clearly made them tons of money.

“Tear the American to pieces,” said my Number One fan.

Neither had long to wait. The flop was the three, eight and king of diamonds. Eric showed no sign of disbelief, but did allow a full smile to appear on his face. Looking at me with an expression of guilt, he shrugged his shoulders almost apologetically. The turn and the River were of no help to either of us. While my adversary was gathering in the chips, I stood up and reached into a pocket for a check of his I had won a few days previously.

What an advantage we had in the Old World compared to games in Las Vegas. Facing the same suckers again and again, it was only normal that skillful players were sometimes laid low by wild opponents. So what? Pitted against them day in and day out, in the long run, how could top players – aces we liked to call ourselves – lose?

Yesterday at the MGM Grand a jackass with an unsuited ten-nine outdrew my wired aces. Apparently my substantial raise impressed him not at all. Shortly afterwards, he was busted, but not, alas by me. The man got up and walked away. More likely than not, I will never see him again.

Can you believe it? Less than an hour later I was again dealt a pair of aces. Before the flop I went all-in. Gathering up the small blind, the big blind and two callers, I was happy nobody challenged me. It’s a hot day in the arctic when two aces hold up against more than three callers. As I said, better to win small than lose big. Still, my bet seemed to confuse a young fellow seated opposite me.

“How can you chase everyone out with such a good hand?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just lost my head.”

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When asked to give his definition of justice, Thrasymachus (circa 459 – 450 BC) who appears in the first book of Plato’s ‘Republic’ replied: “justice is simply the interest of the stronger.” While the idea that might makes right is unpalatable to many of us, it is doubtful that anyone can come up with a better definition. Whether in the casinos of Las Vegas, the boardrooms of Wall Street or the wilds of the Amazon, power determines procedure. Happily, occasional exceptions exist, as Rosa Parks proved fifty years ago.

Last night at the poker table the subject of justice arose when a young man told us what had occurred at a game the previous evening. Apparently a gentleman had quit the table with a $500 profit then came back to his seat a few minutes later with the minimum buy-in of $100. Another player immediately complained.

“The rule clearly states that a person returning to a table with less money must wait at least an hour,” the young man explained. “I backed the fellow who objected.”

The consensus of opinion supported his position. If not breaking up, a game would become a farce if every player with a considerable lead put chips in his pocket while refusing to give up his seat. As it is, one occasionally catches sight of a player surreptitiously taking money off the table in order to reduce his monetary risk. That is definitely a no-no! If caught, he or she will either be asked to leave or replace the chips at once.

“That’s how it should be,” said the dealer. “A minimum buy-in is established so that enough money is in play to make a game interesting. If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

“What happened?” asked a pretty girl seated on the dealer’s right.

“They let him play,” said the young man.

“How come?” I asked.

“The table wasn’t full. The pit boss asked what everyone thought. The majority voted to let the guy back in.”

“But what about the rule,” said the girl?

“Rules are made to be broken,” another player said.

“That’s wrong. If I had been there I would have got up and left.”

“With your looks," said the young man, "you might have swung the vote against him.”

“No way,” said the dealer. “Players don’t care about a pretty face. They voted that way because they wanted the action.”

“Well they got it,” said the young man. “In no time, the bastard ran his hundred up to six hundred.”

“Did he leave again?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said the young man. “I was tapped out.”

“Well I hope you never go back to that casino,” said the girl.

“What do you mean? It happened right here. I’ll play anywhere if there’s a chance to make a quick buck.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” I said.

“That makes me a double loser. Not only did I miss out on the money yesterday, by way this game is plodding along there’s not much hope tonight.”

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I am a nasty, miserable, cantankerous son of a bitch. Anyway, that’s how I felt last night after a particularly lousy performance at no-limit Texas Hold ‘em. As if losing wasn’t bad enough, I had to stop off at the supermarket. Wouldn’t you know it? My checkout line could have been awarded the Guinness Book of Records for languor. The store was overheated and I was overdressed. Drops of perspiration were running down my back. A clumsy oaf at the cashier’s desk couldn’t get his credit card to work. Finally I advanced to second in line. The lady in front of me insisted that an ad in the paper quoted a lower price than the one rang up. When I offered to make up the difference I was met with hostile regards by both shopper and cashier.

An onrush of cold air outside felt good. Not for long. I was shivering and I couldn’t find my car. Carrying two bags full of provisions, I was unable to zip up my jacket. Damn it all, instead of buying several dinners and a cartful of unnecessary junk, I should have stopped off at a pizza parlor.

No wonder it took me so long to locate my car. Hidden between a SUV and what looked like a farm wagon, I walked by it twice before realizing: this one is mine. Blocking the automobile was a shopping cart. The owner of the rural vehicle was loading his truck from the rear.

I was about to shout the loudest insult the parking lot had ever heard when, turning towards me, the man at the shopping cart clasped his hands together like a Brahman Priest and bowed a greeting. Indeterminate of age, he was of medium height and slimly built. Wearing a woolen cap and an open sheep-lined vest, he asked forgiveness for occupying a space that was rightfully mine. Immediately, I thought of the Native American shaman, Don Juan. Years ago, that Yacqui face had struck me as simultaneously holy and enlightened, the same as this stranger’s face appeared to me now.

Unable to speak, I attempted a feeble smile. From the cab of the truck emerged a young girl carrying a baby wrapped in a pair of tattered blankets.

“Could you hold him a moment, please?” she asked in a voice suggestive of mountain flowers and morning dew.

Placing my bags in the car, I took the child from the girl who seemed scarcely of age to be the mother.

“He’s pretty heavy,” I said. “How old is he?”

“Eight months. We nearly lost him. He had open heart surgery a few weeks ago.”
“He certainly looks healthy now,” I said.

“The Lord has been kind to us,” she said. “We are unimaginably lucky.”

“May He bless you, too,” said the gentleman who I suddenly realized was old enough to be the child’s grandfather.

I handed the baby to him. As a rule, a reference to the Lord, or the Almighty or any higher spirit other than poker gods (with whom I am all too familiar), brings out the cynic in me. Joyce’s comment in ‘Ulysees,’ “the islanders speak frequently of the collector of prepuces,” adequately mirrors my feelings regarding a monotheistic overseer of earthly matters. But not this evening. These people were not proselytizing or mouthing clichés. They were neither priests, nor politicians nor zealots. Spontaneously expressing a feeling from the heart, there was no doubting their sincerity.

I drove home feeling better than I had in a long time. And you know what? I felt totally indifferent to the day’s poker results.

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Of all the madmen I encountered in 30 years of poker in Paris none was nuttier than Marcel Favart. Universally called Baby Rose, Favart’s winning percentage was lower than a worm’s belly in winter. Fellow art dealer, Alain Bertier might have lost more money (he was richer), but even he was able to throw away a small pair or resist drawing to an inside straight. In afternoon sessions Baby Rose lost eight games out of ten, while at Jerry Pritkin’s night game he won only once. Obliged to drop out regularly, it’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did.

I thought I was pretty hot stuff when I started to play, and for a while I guess I was. My percentage of wins over losses was the opposite of Baby Rose’s. Then things started to go wrong. I began to lose game after game. Whereas I had previously bragged about my poker skills, I now thought this was nothing but a game of chance. After a series of consecutive losses at Jerry’s, I purchased a rabbit’s foot and arrived at his loft wearing socks of a different color. Intent on breaking my bad spell, I shied away from drinking my usual dose of cognac. That night the signs looked favorable. After a hiatus of several weeks, Marcel Favart was coming to play.

Baby Rose started off as a roulette player. He tried several betting systems, none of which worked. Due to financial problems, he quit playing for over a year. Once back on his feet, he had himself legally barred from all gaming establishments in France. Like most compulsive gamblers, he did not know when to stop. At least poker established a quitting time, which respected or not, allowed Marcel to believe that unlike casinos, private games offered a semblance of control. While he paid lip service to the concept of self-control, Favart was unable to put it into practice. Having learned the expression ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ from some Brits at Deauville, he adopted it as his personal motto.

Wild players like Favart do not crop up every day. One well-heeled maniac can support a table of professionals. Tonight, more than ever, I am counting on Baby Rose.

Jerry refuses to play lowball. At his house we only play straight draw. That’s fine with me. As it is, I am playing scared. My recent string of losses has led me close to the panic button. Again tonight the situation looked bleak. Behind all evening, I am bought in at twenty thousand francs. That’s a hell of a lot, particularly with the recent devaluation of the dollar. Man, I’m risking five thousand big ones.

It’s six in the morning. I’m tired. Again and again I count my chips. It’s been a dipsy-doodle evening. From 19,000 francs behind, I’ve moved to a thousand francs ahead. Thank God, we’re going to break up soon. Since Jerry shifted his game from Saturday to Friday nights, the artsy antique dealers are getting ready to go to the flea market. With only a few hands remaining, I’d be smart not to look at my cards.

Bertier and Favart are losing. The other players seem content to sit on their winnings. Who can blame them?

One by one, I pick up my cards. JLR opens the pot. As always, Baby Rose follows. Since JLR knows how to protect a gain he will not follow a raise unless he is exceedingly strong. Bertier throws his cards away. He looks at his watch and yawns. He is giving up for the night. Good! I don’t want him asking for a prolongation.

Without thinking I give my cards a quick peek. Queen-queen-queen. Doesn’t anyone here ever mix? My instincts are receiving bright red flashes. I’d better be careful. If I follow without raising I can avoid trouble. King, king! Will you look at that? You know what, man? Maybe we can recover some of those losses of the past few weeks. Crazy Favart has as much money in front of him as I do. Wouldn’t it be great if I could double my pile? The trick is to make Marcel think I am weak. Red Alert, Red Alert! Yes, I sense it, but this is poker, a game based on logic.

“Six hundred,” I say, raising the opener a mere two hundred francs. Baby Rose will not understand such a half-ass bet. He will probably think I have a pair of aces. There go the others, dropping out like flies just as I suspected. Who is going to risk a loss on the final round of the night?

“Damn!” says Favart. “Just me and the American? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Clever, clever,” I say to myself. I’m hooking him like a fish. Of course that’s not difficult with Baby Rose. The man should be considered insane. You never know what he will do next. He has jumped fully clothed into the Seine and rode a tricycle the length of the Champs-Elysees. He knows how to fly an airplane, but I doubt if anyone would go up with him.

Fortunately for Favart, he has Daniel Frey as an associate. Daniel keeps a sharp eye on his partner. He has threatened to dissolve the relationship if Baby Rose goes too far. Marcel bends over backwards to please Daniel. As Mr. Inside, Frey tends shop and keeps the accounts. That leaves Baby Rose free to search for objects all over town. The madman loves to buy, but he hates to sell.

Favart was married for several years to a sculptress named Denise. They had a son who they called Michelange. Shortly after the boy’s third birthday, Denise announced she was leaving Marcel for another man. Baby Rose was terribly upset. He thought the marriage had been doing well. When he learned that Denise was living with none other than Daniel Frey, he immediately recovered. If the two were happy together, Favart not only approved, he gave his blessings.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Aren’t we all one family?”

For a while Denise worked with Daniel in their shop on the Rue Jacques Callot. A pretty girl who liked to flir with male customers, her success as a salesperson exceeded either partner’s expectations. Favart was right. Besides being an excellent team, Michelange enjoyed having two fathers.

This arrangement might have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the Russian painter Yuri Sverdlov. Secretly, Denise was seeing Yuri. A born actor with thick black hair and a Rasputin-like beard, Sverdlov played the role of a Left Bank bohemian as though Mulder and Puccini had modeled Rudolfo after him. Unfailingly, he could be found drinking wine or Pastis at one neighborhood café or another, his face and hair smeared with paint. One notable difference existed between Yuri and Rudi: Sverdlov was making money, and a lot of it. Without a word of warning, he and Denise left Paris and went to New York where Yuri was due to exhibit at a major Uptown gallery.

Poor Daniel was inconsolable. He refused to bathe or shave. Time and again he threatened to stab himself with a Japanese sword Favart had purchased at the flea market. Baby Rose had to watch over him like a mother hen. An entire convent of sisters of mercy could not have equaled the compassion Favart lavished on his partner. Slowly, Daniel began to recover, but not until the pair reopened their shop in another location. Frey wanted nothing to remind him of la belle Denise who, never having obtained a divorce, remained Madame Favart.

If Daniel’s behavior fit the classic pattern of a jilted lover, Baby Rose acted in an entirely different manner.

“How could she do this to Daniel?” he raged furiously.

Favart swore he would serve Russian stew if that phony painter returned to the Left Bank. Believe me, I tell you as a poker player, the man was not talking idly. Favart had a particular tell of turning beet red when he held good cards and looking like Hamlet’s father whenever he bluffed. Mentioning Sverdlov made his cheeks catch fire. His pupils narrowed and his face grew mean. I believe the lunatic was capable of running that Japanese sword into the painter’s bowels. Do not ask me what he would have done to Denise. As I said, it is difficult to predict a madman’s behavior.

Following my raise, Marcel puts his money into the pot and asks for three cards. I pound my fist on the table to let him know I am standing pat. A few theatrics can do no harm. I want Baby Rose to think I am feigning strength rather than holding dynamite. You never know, the poor sap might pay me if he catches a second pair.

Favart looks at his cards. I can see his cheeks taking on color. His eyes fill with tears. His entire being is suddenly ablaze.

“Tapis,” he says, meaning, all-in.

“All-in?” I repeat. His disproportionate bet has caught me off guard.

“That’s what I said.”

I swallow hard. What is wrong with this jerk? How can anyone wager twenty-odd thousand francs to protect a six hundred francs bet? Examining him closely, I see it is Marcel Favart all right.

“Call,” I say.

One of the other players lets out a whistle. Suddenly everyone is wide-awake. A lot of money is riding on this hand.

“Two pairs,” says Favart.

I breathe a sigh of relief. For a moment the son of a bitch had me sacred. Good thing it’s Baby Rose and not someone else.

“No good,” I say, reaching for the fabulous pot. “Full house, queens over kings.”

Favart slaps my hand away. “No good for you,” he says. “Sixes over sixes.”

I can feel my mouth drop open. A pain arises inside my stomach. My eyes can see but they refuse to focus. Baby Rose Favart has made four of a kind.

“You know I never fold sixes,” he says.

I do know, I swear I do. Nor does he ever fold sevens, eights or nines. I remain in a semi-trance. If I had that Japanese sword I think I would use it on him. Better still, I should fall on it myself. How could I have let logic dominate instinct? We know the world intuitively, or at least we do so at poker. What do concepts and syllogisms have to do with the cards one is dealt? To hell with logic! To hell with Descartes! To hell with rational thinking! Favart is raking in my money and I have no choice but to sit back and smile. Come on, baby, show the others what a good sport you are. Be stoical in the face of adversity. Aren’t you an old trooper, Mister Professional? Smile, kid, it’s only a game. But it hurts, I tell you. Oh God, how it hurts!

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One evening during a prolonged winning streak in Paris, I invited a friend for dinner at Maxims. At the time, the restaurant was considered a temple of gastronomy, equal in both the quality of its cuisine and the esthetics of its Majorelle interior. All that changed years ago when the Michelin Guide downgraded the establishment by removing two of its prized three stars. In a highly publicized snit, Maxims demanded that rather than accept the new status, it not be listed at all. Just why Michelin acceded to this demand is beyond me. A critic’s role is to express an opinion, a joint venture in the case of Michelin. To back down simply because a restaurant disagrees with the rating is tantamount to succumbing to blackmail. Still, for well over a decade, the renowned restaurant on the Rue Royale has been non-existent as far as the bible of French gastronomy is concerned.

At the end of the meal, the bill included a charge of $6.00 for the miniature sweet cakes and éclairs called petits-fours that top restaurants offer their clients. No little surprised, I asked the waiter why the additional cost.

“You ate them, didn’t you?” he replied.

“Yes, but I did not order them. They were offered by the house.”

Even though the charge was removed, the evening ended on a sour note. For this, if no other reason, I was hardly surprised when Michelin came up with its verdict. While taking a customer for a sucker has no bearing on a restaurant’s cuisine, it is indicative of a lax attitude. Clearly Monsieur Vaudable, the former owner of Maxims, ran a much tighter ship than his distinguished successor.

My Sunday night’s experience at the Japanese restaurant at Caesar’s Palace brought to mind that long-ago dinner chez Maxims. Again, the quality of the food was not the issue. I use the term food rather than cuisine since to my thinking Japanese meals, being composed rather than cooked, should not be elevated to the same category as their counterparts from France, China, Italy or Thailand. Not that that takes away from the excellence of the natural products employed by Japanese chefs, or diminishes their skills in preparing meat, vegetables, fish and seafood. It’s just that, more direct than subtle, Japanese meals tend to eschew those combinations of spices and sauces that distinguish a great cuisine.

Price, quantity and attitude were the pitfalls of Caesar’s Japanese dinner. To begin with, the waitress urged our party to try a bottle of sake different from the one we ordered, different that is by more than twice the price. That’s like a French sommelier urging a diner to order a cru classe rather than a cru bourgeois. Then there were the choices. Other than the usual assortment of sashimi and sushi, only two fixed-price dinners were on the menu, one at $56 the other at $58. Oh man, I’ve been to Nipponese diners and all-you-can-eat sushi cafes where the selection put Caesar’s menu to shame. The three of us ordered two plates of sashimi, four different kinds of sushi and the $56 dinner. We assumed that sharing the chicken, steak and tempura vegetables would satisfy our appetites, hardly unreasonable seeing that the two ladies present generally pick away at a salad or split an order of satay at a Thai or Malaysian restaurant. Well guess again! The prix fixe meal might have been enough for a Geisha girl who had previously snacked on uni and unagi, but for a diner who hadn’t eaten since lunchtime it was woefully insufficient. I say there, Sherlock, mind passing along your magnifying glass?

Oy vay, did I ever make a mistake! Misreading the menu, one of the plates of sashimi I requested was for tuna belly (toro), raw fish that tasted pretty much the same as the other plate of sashimi we ordered, normal tuna fish. But whereas the latter was billed at $12.50, the former was marked: market price. Give me a break, will ya! I’ll take being gypped for a plate of cookies at Maxims any day compared to the beating we took over a dish the three of us downed in less than a minute at Caesar’s. Six dollars I can handle, but when our check arrived it included $65 for a few miniature slices of the underside of what Bumblebee serves in cans for $1.40. Sixty-five bucks! We could have dined on Peking duck and lobster Cantonese at a Chinese restaurant a mile away for less than that.

The final indignity was reserved for payment. Reluctantly permitted to settle the $205 bill with a credit card, the waitress asked if we could leave the tip in cash. Well I don’t mind paying filthy lucre in Buenos Aires. Argentina is undergoing a severe economic crisis exacerbated by a sharp devaluation of the peso. A waiter in B.A. needs the dough right away. But here in the USA? In Las Vegas? On The Strip? Come on, Honey, chips and plastic are so common out here that a lot of us don’t know what greenbacks look like anymore.

Returning home, my wife and I were happy to find plenty of leftovers in the fridge. While our visiting friend was packing her bags to return to Miami, Karin and I greedily devoured a plateful of meat and two pieces of pie. Not only had the entire Thanksgiving meal: turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie cost us $37 at a local supermarket, they were happy to accept Visa, and with no thought of a tip.

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The first evening I played poker at Jerry and Carla Prtikin’s I immediately recognized I had fallen into a cavern of riches. Their invitees were as unskillful as those who played in my afternoon game. In the poker business one’s assets are one’s opponents. Chez Pritkin I was facing a group of kindergartners.

Apparently, Jerry’s main objective was to show off to his wife. He could not restrain himself from gloating whenever he outplayed her. Since that aroused Carla’s anger, she would go after him by raising his bets. It mattered not that they were playing with common funds. Nor did they pay the slightest attention to other players who might be pitted against them. If a third party happened to win a hand, they would accuse one another of crowding the action. That attitude rubbed off on a second couple playing with common funds. Stasia and Louis were both doctors. Although they lived together they had no plans of getting married. A redheaded beauty of Russian origin, Stasia never addressed Louis by anything other than his last name. It was: ‘Mellot get me a drink,’ or ‘Mellot put in a chip for me,’ or ‘Mellot you play like an idiot.’ Louis Mellot, a yellow-papered cigarette dangling from his lips, would make a sour face but not say a word. Stasia was right. Mellot did play like an idiot. So did she.

Also present at the Pritkin table was a tall bespectacled gentleman known as JLR. Jean-Luc Ravel held a high position in a publishing house. A quiet, timid man, he played with great intensity, frequently examining his cards as though they held some secret formula. He claimed to be related to the famed composer, but few people believed him. I was an exception. Not about Uncle Maurice, but about the card he received when drawing to a straight or a flush. All you had to do was ask him and he would tell you. Not once did I catch him fibbing. That was important since Ravel was not afraid to bluff. After he bet, you had to study his face. JLR had such refined manners that whenever he bluffed he automatically smiled.

Rounding out the Pritkin table were two art dealers from my afternoon game: Alain Bertier and Marcel Favart, called, Baby Rose. Bertier did not seem pleased to see me at a table where he was a winner. Good old Baby Rose greeted me warmly.

“Ah, Bill, I think I shall get back some of the money you’ve taken from me at Madame Nicole’s.”

Damn that Favart! He turned out to be a better prophet than poker player.

*

I had a problem with Arthur Sisse. Although my archrival was in the army, he was in as a dentist, not as a soldier. Stationed on the outskirts of Paris, he was free on Friday afternoons and Saturday evenings. Time and again, he asked me to bring him to the Pritkin’s. Aware that the afternoon game was still my bread and butter, it was in my interest to convert Sisse from enemy to ally. Still, it was with a good deal of reluctance that I asked Jerry if I could bring him along.

“Sure,” said Jerry. “We are short of players tonight as it is.”

That was because Jacqueline Sels was recovering from an operation and Baby Rose was out of town. With their return the table would be full. Secretly hoping that Jerry would not like Arthur, I was in for a rude surprise. Arthur knew just how to play up to our host. Since both men enjoyed expensive cigars, Sisse was suddenly generous in sharing his Havanas. A strange bond exists between cigar smokers, even ones of opposing dispositions. Puffing away together, Arthur and Jerry went off to some smoky land of their own, allowing the dentist to become a permanent fixture at the Pritkin game.

*

Dangerous night tonight! Carla and Jerry are faring poorly. They have stopped attacking one another. Over the past several weeks I have won a lot of money at their house. Sisse and Bertier have been winning too, but not as much as me. Baby Rose has dropped out. A player would have to be a lot richer than he is to stay afloat after the losses he’s suffered. It’s Stasia, Louis and the Pritkins who have been losing regularly. A few hands ago I took a sizeable pot from Mellot. That prompted Sisse to make a nasty comment. JLR looked at him quizzically. He too smokes cigars. I will have to watch my step.

Jerry opens a hand at 100 francs ($20). JLR follows. The bet comes to me. I have decided to play foolishly.

“Three hundred,” I say, holding a pair of fives.

“Sauve qui peut,” (‘save yourselves’) says Sisse, implying that I only play locked hands.

Liar! He plays tighter than anybody here.

Louis Mellot hesitates but follows. Now it’s Stasia who has a problem. You can see she wants to come in. Thinking better of it, she throws her cards away with a display of ill humor. Damn it all! I am playing to lose.

Both Jerry and JLR call. Carla is busy making coffee. It’s four in the morning. We could all use a shot of caffeine.

“Three cards,” says Jerry.

“One,” says JLR.

If I were playing to win I would stand pat. I know I have everyone psyched. Then I would examine Ravel to see if he hit his hand. That would leave only Mellot behind me as a threat. But I am not playing to win. Wasn’t it Lenin who said: “sometimes you have to take one step backward in order to move two steps forward?”

“Three cards,” I say.

Stasia smacks her forehead with an open palm. I’ll be damned. For the first time ever, she did not come in with a pair of aces.

“One only,” says Mellot.

Jerry bets a single chip after the draw. No doubt he has a pair of kings.

“Five hundred,” says Ravel.

Ironically, I’ve caught another five. Like the police, cards are never there when you need them, but often present when you do not.

“My time,” I say, before going through my ritual. I had better not be mistaken. Just as I thought, there is no trace of a smile. The editor has hit his hand for sure.

“I pay,” I say.

Jerry throws his cards away out of turn. I do not like the expression on his face. Mellot shakes his head disgustedly. He shows us all that he has come up short drawing to a straight flush.

“Alpinist,” says Ravel. He has made a flush in spades. In French a spade is a pique, homonymous with the word pic meaning the top of a mountain, ergo a mountain climber or an Alpinist. The French try very hard to be clever.

“Ayieee,” I say. “I was sure you were bluffing.”

Ravel does not conceal his pleasure. He rakes in the chips. Behind all night, he has suddenly moved ahead. Next I will attempt to give some money back to the Pritkins. That is not so easy. A player cannot select his victims or his beneficiaries at will. The cards have something to say about that.

“What is wrong with the rest of you?” says Ravel, uncharacteristically verbose. “I have no problem beating the American.”

Bless him, bless him and bless him again! I could not have phrased it better myself. That son of a bitch Sisse has a smirk on his face ten meters wide. That’s what I get for bringing him here.

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At last the long Thanksgiving weekend is coming to a close. The lines for everything have been endless. At casino after casino, up to three-quarters of an hour was necessary to retrieve one’s car from valet parking. Well, that did me a bit of good. The only place I’ve been able to win at no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em has been the Wynn, where the self-parking lot, I learned yesterday, is adjacent to the poker room. That will save me $5.00 a day as well as making parking easier. Situated on several levels, each with its own separate entrance, the Wynn Resort provides drivers with a convenient electrical system that reveals how many spaces are available at any given moment.

Our son came to town for the holiday. We wanted to treat him to a post Thanksgiving Day dinner at one of the better casino restaurants. Unless we accepted to dine at 6:00 PM, it was impossible to get a reservation. Like millions of other Americans we ate leftover turkey. You know what? A cold turkey club sandwich is almost as good as Thursday’s hot meal.

On Friday and Saturday mornings, both my son and I participated in poker tournaments. Neither of us advanced very far. There were over ninety players at Harrah’s and around sixty at The Excalibur. The blinds and antes went up so quickly nearly everyone had to go all-in with any two cards in order to avoid elimination by attrition.

No different than any other Saturday evening, traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard was bumper to bumper. A three-mile ride took close to twenty minutes. We ended up dining at a cafe off the Strip. The waitress told us that since Thanksgiving is a family fete, it is far less crowded than other holidays.

“What about Christmas?” I asked her.

“That’s family too, but a lot more people are around. New Year’s Eve is the worst. You might have to wait two hours to get into a joint like this, and even more to get a seat at a slot machine or table game.”

“The way poker has been going for me,” I said, “that sounds like a blessing in disguise.”

“Tell me about it,” said the waitress. “I haven’t won a game in a month.”

“Maybe the two of you should give it a rest,” said my wife, looking directly at me.

“No way, honey,” said the waitress. “If Hemingway were alive today, he’d call this place, not Paris, a moveable feast.”

“Really?” I asked. “Are you familiar with Paris?”

“No,” said the waitress, “I’m familiar with Hemingway. I majored in American Lit in college.”

“Is that so?” I said. “Where did you go to school?”

“Does it make any difference? Look, I’ve got other customers. Are you ready to order?”

We did so. Before she left for the kitchen, our son offered her a Happy Thanksgiving.

“It will only be happy if I start winning again. Anything less is an immoveable famine.”

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Literary characters such as Rastignac, Gatsby and Sammy Glick exemplify the obsessed young man arriving from farm or suburbs to the city prepared to move up in the world. Alain Bertier, the superstar of my original Parisian poker game, followed a similar route. Nothing, he said, was going to block his route to fame and fortune.

“I was devoured by ambition,” he said. “ ‘Success at any price,’ was my motto.”

Alain enjoyed bragging about his poker losses. Nary an art dealer, auctioneer, runner or hanger-on in France was unaware that Le Grand Bertier spent weekday afternoons playing cards. As his reputation grew, so did the number of people coming to visit him. Art magazines sent photographers to take pictures of his apartment. Shopkeepers from Madison Avenue to the Ginza came to restock their boutiques. Museum curators called on him regularly. Movie stars and pop singers would have been hard pressed to add to their Art Nouveau and Art Deco collections without looking in on the great Bertier.

“I’m making a fortune,” he liked to announce at the poker table.

Since he had no patience with people outside the trade, Bertier did not seek goods from private individuals. If he did not buy from other dealers, he limited his purchases to public auctions. Contrary to most of his competitors he refused to pay intermediaries a commission for bringing him merchandise. On one occasion, after an employee at Paris’s main auction house had concealed a much sought-after item from rival bidders, Alain rewarded him with a single franc. Having saved the art dealer hundreds of dollars, it was only normal that the poor fellow was shocked. Letting the franc slide onto the floor, he made no effort to mask his contempt. Bertier was unmoved. Stooping down, he retrieved the coin and placed it into his pocket.

One time only did Bertier visit the home of a private party. Madame Sorigny, an elderly lady who had fallen on hard times was selling off a collection of first edition books along with a few other items. Alain knew nothing of books, but he sensed there might be something in the house for him. As usual, his instincts proved correct. Immediately upon entering the lady’s apartment, he caught sight of a rare Galle vase. While nothing else interested him, he spent over an hour inquiring about every other object in the lady’s possession. Finally, he asked Madame Sorigny how much she wanted for the vase.

“I could never part with that,” she said. “It has too deep a sentimental value.”

Bertier was not put off. He knew he would have to take his time. Once more he went through the lady’s collection. Time and again he fingered an object with deliberate care. Only when he felt the proper moment had arrived did he return his attention to the Galle vase.

“You know, Madame,” he said, “I can understand your feelings. While this vase has no commercial value, it is rather pretty.”

Now, as though obeying the instructions of a theatrical director, he picked up the vase and examined it closely.

“The reason I am interested,” he said, “is that this vase belongs to a set of four. I happen to own the other three.”

“Really?” said Madame Sorigny.

“Don’t you think it is a shame for the vases not to be together?”

“Well,” stammered the lady, “I wouldn’t know about such things.”

“It is a set, Madame. A set should not be separated.”

“It does seem a bit sad.”

“Perhaps,” said Alain, “you would like to purchase the other three?”

“Dear me, I am in no position to be buying antiques.”

“For the sake of the set I will sell them to you cheaply.”

“I am afraid that is out of the question.”

“Then allow me to buy yours.”

The woman hesitated. Alain sensed she was weakening. As irritating as it was, he would have to remain with her a while longer.

“I really cannot sell this vase,” she said.

“Listen,” Alain insisted. “I’m a little crazy. Cite me an absolutely impossible price. That was I can leave her in peace.”

“Oh dear,” said the lady. “I would rather not.”

“Go on. Mention a ridiculous price.”

“Well,” said Madame Sorigny, “suppose I was to say twenty-five thousand francs?”


Alain’s mouth dropped open. He fell to his knees. Madame Sorigny could see the poor fellow was white as a sheet.

“Madame,” he said, gulping for air, “that is more than the entire set is worth.”

“Well,” said Madame Sorigny, smiling. “You said I should quote a ridiculous price.”

Alain spent a full half-hour explaining to the lady the necessity of reuniting the set. By now nearly three hours had elapsed. The art dealer paced the floor. He pulled at his hair. He emitted a pitiful noise. He grew angry, then contrite. Again and again he told Madame Sorigny how outrageous her proposal was. Tears welled in his eyes. Several times he grabbed his hat and approached the front door. At last, sensing the psychological moment had finally arrived Le Grand Bertier took a large wad of bills from his pocket. As though in a trance, he slowly placed twenty-five thousand francs on the dining room table before clutching the Galle vase close to his heart.

“Madame,” he said. “You have made a complete fool out of me.”

Once outside, Alain hurried to his boutique. Breathing rapidly, he did not bother to sit down. He threw off his coat and picked up the telephone.

“It’s Bertier,” he said. “Come to Paris tomorrow. I have the vase you have been looking for.”

The following afternoon a gentleman arrived from Zurich. Attached to his wrist by handcuffs was a leather case containing 100,000 Swiss Francs. For a single day’s work in December 1969 Alain Bertier had earned $25,000, about twice the average Frenchman’s salary at the time.

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Friday 11/25/05, 6:30 AM: The no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em $50 buy-in (with re-buys for 1 hour) at Harrah’s begins at eleven o’clock.

“You’d better be here by nine,” the poker room lady told me. “On holiday weekends we usually sell out by 9:30.”

I’m preparing to leave the house in two hours. They estimate between eighty and one hundred ten players. The first prize will be around $1500. A gentleman I played with the other night told me he won $575 for coming in third Tuesday morning. I had played with him once before. A New Yorker in his early forties, he won big on that first occasion, and seemed to be doing well tonight. Another chap at our table asked him what he did for a living.

“I’m a photographer,” he said. “I travel around the country taking animal or architectural pictures.”

“Tough life! How’s the pay?”

“It’s been good lately.”

“Some guys have all the luck.”

“Yeah, don’t we? It only took me sixteen years until things started to fall into place. You know what my credit rating is? Zero! I ran up more unpaid bills than there are chips at the World Series of Poker Tournament. Speaking of tournaments,” he added, “I have two special strategies, each opposed to the other.”

Then he explained to us that one should start off playing either extremely tight or exceedingly loose. Towards the end of the tournament you change your style and do the contrary to how you began.

“Keep ‘em guessing,” he concluded.

“You still need luck,” I said.

“Of course. That goes without saying.”

“I disagree,” said a gentleman wearing a baseball cap. “Not about luck, but about how one should play. The idea of a tournament is to advance in the beginning without taking risks. In cash games you’d raise with two tens or two jacks. Not so in a tournament. You want your opponents to kill one another off before you make a move. I’d limp in with a medium-high pair and hope to flop a set.”

“What would you do with wired aces or kings?” the photographer asked.

Baseball cap shrugged. “You can’t refuse the cards. Go all-in and hope for the best.”

“Tournaments stink,” said the young man who had asked the photographer’s profession. “They take too long and they don’t pay enough.”

“Tell that to the Aussie who won seven and a half million dollars.”

“That’s freaky,” said the only lady at our table. “Like people you read about who win three hundred million dollars at lotto.”

“I’ll take either,” said the photographer.

“I wouldn’t object to winning a pig pot here and now,” said our distaff opponent.

“You’ve played two hands all night,” said Baseball Cap. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but you can’t win at lotto if you don’t buy a ticket.”

“No tickee, no shirtee,” said an ass seated next to an Oriental player.

“Why don’t the nine of us make a pool?” I said. “We can chip in $5 or $10 apiece to finance the winner of the next hand at tomorrow morning’s tournament.”

“No way,” said the young man. “I wouldn’t play tournament poker if you paid me.”

“Me neither,” said the lady.

“Ditto,” said the ass.

“Count me out,” said the Oriental gentleman.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If I win the next hand I’ll go to tomorrow morning’s tournament.”

That did not seem very likely. Losing over $100, I hadn’t won a hand in over an hour. Worse – or better – still, I was the big blind on the next hand. Well, you guessed it. Dealt two aces, I could hardly believe what was happening. Lady Gambler raised and was followed by the ass. Naturally, I went all-in. Both players paid, but neither outdrew me. So here I am, getting ready to head over to Harrah’s to play in a tournament, an idea I had rejected till now.

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September is the most exciting month in Paris. Revitalized by the return of countless vacationers, the city is ‘en fete.’ The grocer restocks his shelves, bakeries reopen and lines form in front of school supply stores and department stores. Throughout town, Parisians settle into routines interrupted by a month in the mountains or at the seashore. Even poker undergoes a recommencement. Reassured that the games would continue, every September I would drive my motorcycle to a different landmark in order to pay homage to the city I now called home.

Five AM. A mist rises along the banks of the Seine. The Place de la Concorde is deserted. Along the Rue Royale and behind the Madeleine all motion has ceased. The trees along the Boulevard Malesherbes are still dressed in summertime green. The iron gates of the Parc Monceau remain locked for the night. On the narrow Rue Lewis, the street market is strangely empty. Shops are sealed tightly. Noise is absent.

The interior boulevards are equally quiet. The railroad tracks beneath the Rue de Rome remain dark. At this time of day the back streets of Paris are as tranquil as a provincial village. On tin rooftops pigeons coo softly. The first light of day filters in from the east. In a half-hour the Metro will open. Cafes catering to early commuters are already partially lit. By six o’clock automobile engines will shatter the serenity. The spell that exists between the onset of morning twilight and the first rays of dawn shall be dispersed by the energy of a city coming to life.

This morning I shall go to the top of Montmartre. I will wend my way along the Rue Lepic. There is a song about the street, Montand’s young voice extolling the serpentine route that connects the former suburb to the modern city. At the top of the street I will leave my motorcycle and climb to the Butte on foot. Only a few minutes of magic remain. A century ago, this was the home of poets and painters who brought about a resuscitation of beauty previously reserved to ancient Athens and Renaissance Florence. I remember their names from the time I was a boy. Was it their voices that lured me to Paris?

I climb on trembling legs. This is my pilgrimage. I shall honor the ghosts who called me to this city of unparalleled beauty. I hear them as I near the summit. Figures in spectral light move through the morning haze. Beneath me the immense metropolis reposes in silence. The air I breathe now is the air they breathed. The city I gaze on is the city they knew. Neither houses nor parks nor cobblestones have changed one iota. I can feel my heart beating. My flesh is simultaneously cold and on fire. I know the ghosts are near. For one frozen instant everything is the same as it was one hundred years ago.

I walk along the empty square, stopping only when I reach the edge that overlooks the western part of the city. Minute after minute trickles by. The sun does not appear, but daylight advances. Off in the distance a streetlight expires. Silver rooftops shield an awakening giant. My eyes fall on the steeple of a familiar church. I recognize the Arch of Triumph. Further away, the metal tower that defines the city catches the first rays of the morning sun. It is my city now. It is my city as much as it was theirs. It is my mistress, lover and poker table. The illusory world of poker and the illusory city of Paris have become intertwined. Together they bring me a joy that exceeds all comprehension.

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If not totally elitist, poker in France is by and large reserved to the upper classes. French laborers actively play ‘tarot’ and ‘belotte,’ but your average working stiff would no more sit in at a poker game than he would frequent the clubhouse at Longchamps. At one time, this exclusivity made for some strange conventions. In Gallic society, substance is secondary to style. It is all right to bet, but one must not hesitate to do so. Gestures and verbal influences are definitely frowned on. Entrapment must be done in a proper manner. Parisian poker players are – or were - supposed to act like ladies and gentlemen.

Let me assure you: times are changing. Not only is Yankee imperialism manifest by fast food chains, rap music and television reruns, the inner sanctum of stodgy Parisian baccarat clubs has given way to poker a l’americain. Today you can witness as much shouting and shoving at gaming tables on the Champs-Elysees as you can on Las Vegas Boulevard or Fremont Street.

One difference exists. Women players in France tend to be less vocal than their American counterparts. Economic exigencies, as well as global and colonial wars, have seen women in France integrate into the labor force on a professional level well before feminism became active in the United States. Female doctors and dentists are far more common in The Hexagon than they are in the land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Let me stop here before I get into hot water. In law and journalism, American women have doubtless caught up with and perhaps surpassed their French sisters. Without facts or figures to fall back on, I’m going to cop out by citing Disraeli. “There are lies, there are damn big lies and there are statistics.”

Anyway, last night at the Rio, two American ladies put on a show of verbosity more common to the back room of a Texas roundhouse than to the chic salons of the Aviation Club de France. The game was no-limit hold ‘em. Not that the poker action made any difference. Clearly the two young ladies were familiar with one another from previous evenings. Ellen, the woman with long brown hair addressed her blonde opponent by a familiar appellation.

“Do you want to know why everybody calls you ‘Dirty Dorothy,’” she asked? “Because you can’t utter a single sentence without using a four letter word.”

“F- off, baby,” said Dorothy. “This is Las Vegas.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t act like a lady.”

“The hell with that. I have no pretensions of being anything other than what I am.”

“And what, may I ask, is that?”

“A bloody poker player.”

“Yes, but such a foul mouthed poker player!”

“What the f- do you care?’

“It’s just so unfeminine.”

“And from such a pretty girl,” I interjected.

“Go to hell, Mister,” said Dorothy.

“That’s right,” said Ellen. “Looks have nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”

“Frankly,” I said, itching for trouble, “I find her anatomy more interesting than her vocabulary.”

“What a f---ing creep,” said Ellen.

“Hey!” I said. “Now you’re doing the same thing you reproached her for.”

“That’s none of your business, shithead,” said Dorothy.

“But it is,” I said. “As long as we’re sitting at the same table, it is my business.”

“Is it all right with you people if we get back to playing poker?” asked an elderly gentleman.”

If there is a moral to all this, I suppose it is to acknowledge that playing games in Las Vegas is more colorful than playing games in France. In the musical, ‘My Fair Lady,’ Henry Higgins says: “the French don’t care what they say, as long as they pronounce it properly.” That is not so. The upper crust cares very much what they say. It’s just that, rather than coming through sharp and distinct, French swear words sound like sauces at a fancy restaurant. And French women, we are told, are constantly on a diet.

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Art Buchwald, long one of the nation’s leading humorists, concluded in his column about teaching the French the meaning of Thanksgiving that the fourth Thursday in November was the one day of the year when Americans dine better than our Gallic friends. (Oui, Monsieur/Madame, at one time Franco-American relations were actually friendly). Of course Mr. Buchwald wrote that piece about fifty years ago, a time when gastronomy in the United States was limited to steaks, chops and a handful of regional specialties from New England and New Orleans. Much has changed since, and if we in the U.S. still trail the French at dining, the gap has considerably narrowed. No city exemplifies this trend more than contemporary Las Vegas.

To enumerate the great or near great restaurants on the Strip itself would require more magazine space than a weekly column of summertime reruns. Each of the city’s mega resorts alone houses up to a dozen top eateries. While no particular nationality dominates, the hotel/casinos go out of their way to lure renowned chefs specializing in French, Italian and – yes - nouvelle American cuisines. But the real key is ethnicity. Outstanding Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Pacific Rim, Middle Eastern, Japanese, Polynesian and Indian restaurants are located all over town as well as on Las Vegas Boulevard. And then there are steak houses and buffets! The Today in Las Vegas weekly visitor’s guide lists twenty-nine excellent steakhouses, and I tell you, they’ve overlooked a few. As for buffets, even if those are not the ultimate in fine dining, the quality and variety of their dishes are not only impressive, they are absolutely mind boggling. Not to mention the bargain basement prices.

So on this November holiday, when most of us shall take a break from the gastronomic delights our city offers in favor of paying homage to tradition, I am happy to inform you, Sir Arthur, that America has come a long way from the dark ages when, Thanksgiving aside, breakfast was considered the only decent meal of the day. What’s more, on this side of the Atlantic we correctly honor the origins of the many ethnic dishes we enjoy. Not like those nasty Frenchmen who continue to call turkey ‘dinde,’ which means: from India.

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Maurice de Talleyrand, the renowned statesman who served both Louis XVI and Napoleon Bonaparte was known to have extolled the sweetness of life during the French monarchy. Paris, of course, was the center of everything. Again, after the Franco-Prussian War and World War I, the capital witnessed a rebirth of gaiety and splendor. So too did the city experience a brief flair of magnificence after World War II. Much like the expatriates of the 1920s, those of us who spent time in Paris in the 50s and early 60s were privileged to have known a drunken metropolis celebrating a final moment of post-bellum joy. That was before urban blight, street crime, pollution, inflation, racial disruptions and the general malaise that permeates all of France today came along.

For a brief while, the city was majestic. Sylphs and sorcerers had taken turns to bless her with celestial stardust. Emerald leaves floated through enchanted trees. Golden ashes descended onto the arcades facing the Rue de Rivoli. Fountains of spectral mist sprayed the obelisk at the Place de la Concorde. Atop Montmartre, Sacre Coeur glowed in cool pink mornings. Lovers, passionate and serene, stopped to embrace in gardens and parks. Café sitters dozed in halos of dazzling light. With loud clicking heels, comely demoiselles glided on starling wings. Men and boys fished behind long wooden poles. Elderly ladies, busy with needles and wool, occupied long green benches. Beneath a blue-gray sky, Parisians, individually and en masse, were frozen in a motionless tableau, joyously confirming the countless gifts bestowed upon their incomparable city.

I was an insomniac when I started playing poker. No matter how late I went to bed I could not sleep past five in the morning. That’s the time Paris wakes up. There is a poker expression for that. You won’t find it in any dictionary or guidebook. A heart flush is composed of five hearts, ‘cinq coeurs’ in French. That is homonymous with cinq heures, five o’clock. If you ever hear anybody at a French card table say: ‘Paris s’eveille’ (Paris awakens), you can be sure he is announcing he’s made a heart flush.

The metro starts running at five-thirty. Cafes and newspaper kiosks open slightly earlier. As in any major metropolis, working class people dominate the early morning. Around five-fifteen I would buy the Herald Tribune, before going for coffee and croissants at Le Rallye Café on the Place Saint-Andre-des-Arts. Michel the night man stayed on until eight in the morning. He and I liked to play a French dice game called four hundred twenty-one. We played for drinks, not for money. Weekday mornings, Roger and Toto, a pair of brothers-in-law would arrive at the café with the first metro. Invariably, they drank a glass or two of melicasse, a combination of rum and red currant syrup. One day Toto stayed late instead of going to work. He wanted to play dice with Michel and me. The man had a hot hand. The bartender and I were obliged to cough up enough dough to pay for eight of his cocktails. None of us was aware of the hour. Just before Michel was due to get off, Toto collapsed to the floor. Neither Michel nor I knew what to do. Another client called the fire department. Toto was taken across the river to the Hotel Dieu Hospital.

He was absent the following morning. Roger blamed Michel and me for getting him drunk. He called us every name in the book. Didn’t we know that Toto had a bad liver?

“You rats,” he concluded. “You could have killed him.”

Michel made a Gallic shrug. All his clients had bad livers, he said. Roger would not be appeased. He and Toto stopped going to Le Rallye. For a while they went to the tobacco bar next door. Then they abandoned the Latin Quarter altogether. Shortly afterwards, Michel was fired. Not because of what had occurred with Toto, but because he was caught with his hand in the till.

The new night manager of the Rallye was a deadbeat. I started going to the café Jacques Coeur instead. Antoine, the owner was convinced I was wealthy. A lot of people in the neighborhood agreed with him. In those days, the French thought all Americans had to be loaded.

Before long, Antoine accused me of coming on to his wife. I was not alone. A number of other clients were on his list of suspects. One morning he pulled out a pistol and shot a local merchant. Beatrice was the only waitress at the café. The victim had no reason not to be friendly with her. Such logic made no impression on Antoine. He was sent to prison, but for less than a year. Crimes of passion are treated lightly in Mediterranean Countries. Even though Paris is a long way from the sea, Cartesian logic pays no attention to a minor phenomenon such as distance. Not long after he regained his freedom, Antoine attacked another client for making eyes at Beatrice. That was nothing unusual as far as his countrymen were concerned. As the French like to say: the more things change, the more they remain the same. But that is not so. Today the Café Jacques Coeur is a souvenir shop, and The Rallye is a secondhand bookstore.

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Poker in private games is a self-defeating business. Limited in number, a table’s top players will eventually win too much money from weaker opponents. As losers drop out, the game will suffer. A professional is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Without a steady infusion of new blood games are likely to collapse. Such was the threat to poker in Paris both in the beginning and throughout much of my thirty-year career.

After Jacques Ben Simon refused to pay his debt, things began to fall apart in my original game. Gaston the florist had already dropped out and Henri the electrical supply salesman was soon to follow. When my archenemy, Arthur Sisse was called up for military service, the table was in big trouble. Sisse’s colleague, Claude Stahly came by a lot less, leaving us with only four steady players: Pepe, the old fruit and vegetable supplier, Crybaby Freddie, Alain Bertier and myself. Happily, it was Bertier who saved the day by introducing me to Jerry and Carla Pritkin.

In the world of art and antiques, the Pritkins were the new kids on the block. Jerome Andrew Pritkin had a French mother and an English father. Carla was from Brazil. They owned a shop near the Place de la Republique, and lived in a loft above the store. While they were crazy about their business, they had a long way to go to catch up to Bertier. Jerry bought and sold everything from porcelain door handles to bicycle racing posters. Carla was more ambitious. Passionate about Art Deco furniture, she had an eye for quality.

The Pritkins ran a Saturday night poker game frequented by players who knew less about cards than I knew about antiques. Stupid me, I would have been a thousand times better off learning about Ruhlman, Erte and Printz and concentrating less on poker. Then again, an invitation to play chez Pritkin was like falling into Ali Baba’s cavern. All you had to do was show up to win.

Like most of their competitors, Carla and Jerry sought merchandise at the Paris Flea Market. Competing dealers invariably arrived at the Porte Saint-Ouen two or three hours before the Saturday morning opening bell when merchants from the provinces brought in their wares. One could never tell when a rural bumpkin might turn up with an article of interest. Since the system existed on a first-come, first-serve basis, the Parisians knew they had better not be late if they were to take advantage of their country cousins. As a rule, commerce ran smoothly, but instances in which two or more metropolitan dealers clashed over the same item were known to occur. Then the Flea Market would turn into a boxing arena. As fists flew and blood flowed, the provincial vendor would wake up to the fact that he possessed something special. Instead of selling, he would take his object off the market. That ruined the game for the big boys who would trudge back to their fancy boutiques empty-handed.

Not an early riser, Jerry Pritkin preferred to stay in bed till noon and have his wife go to the flea market. On a weekend when Carla was visiting her family in Sao Paulo, the Anglo-French dealer awoke at his normal late hour. With nothing better to do, he went to look in on a friend at the Paris Flea Market. Familiar with the system, he saw no reason to bring more than a thousand francs ($200) with him, a sum he was more likely to lose at cards or dice than in purchasing art.

Jerry was standing outside the Marche Biron when he heard his name called. He was surprised to see a merchant he knew from the south of France.

“What brings you here so late?” he asked.

“My truck broke down.”

The Parisian dealer ambled over. Since the southerner was seven hours late, Jerry might find something to purchase after all. Peeking into the back of the truck, he gasped slightly and looked away. No raw beginner, he had learned a few tricks of the trade.

“What is that thing?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I was going to ask you.”

“Is that all you’ve got?”

“That’s it.”

“You mean you drove 800 kilometers to sell that piece of junk?”

“I delivered a load of firewood. How much do you think it’s worth? It’s made of marble, I think.”

Jerry fingered the object casually. His heart was skipping beats but he did not reveal his excitement.

“It has to be cleaned up,” he said. “It’s black as pitch.”

“How much will you give me?”

“I don’t know. Who is it supposed to be?”

“I told you: I was going to ask you. Come on, Jerry. How much?”

Jerome Andrew Pritkin looked around. It was lunchtime. His rival dealers would be enjoying their meals. Sometimes it paid to sleep late.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

The provincial dealer shrugged. “How’s about twelve hundred francs?”

Jerry slapped his palm against his forehead. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t sell it for half that price.”

“Look, Jerry, I’ve got to get going. I’ll sell it to you for a thousand.”

“Make it eight hundred. I’m taking a risk.”

They settled at nine hundred francs. Once he received his change, Jerry hailed a cab. Arriving home, he called Carla in Brazil.

“Guess what I just bought at Saint-Ouen for nine hundred francs?” he asked.

“How should I know?”

“A marble bust of Sarah Bernhardt by Houdon.”

“Houdon who designed the Washington Monument?”

“One and the same.”

Carla let out a scream of joy. Her parents must have thought she was nuts. She knew prices better than Jerry. Once the bust was cleaned and polished it would be worth in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars.

I was pretty happy too. The Pritkins had a lot more money than usual to lose at poker. While I intended to go slowly, it was a sure thing that I would get my fair share.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

From the first day I played poker in Paris, Arthur Sisse hated my guts. I guess that can be considered normal. Until I came along, Arthur had been the table’s big winner. Besides which, it was he, along with a few acquaintances from dental school who had started up the game. Poor, miserable Arthur! He resented anyone who was successful, no matter what his field. Born into a modest family, he was insanely jealous of people who possessed more than he did. Since that included everyone in our group, he wasn’t particularly fond of the other players either. He reproached Jacques Ben Simon for bringing me into the game, and told Alain and Henri they were idiots to laugh at my jokes while I was taking their money.

“We laughed at your jokes when you were winning,” said Henri.

“He’ll give it back,” said Ben Simon who proceeded to mutter something about the stupidity of Americans.

Arthur did have one friend, or rather, a sort of camp follower, his fellow dentist, Claude Stahly. Other than their professional ties, neither had much in common with the other. Arthur was tall, blonde and intelligent while Claude was short, dark and stupid. Whereas Sisse’s father was a high school history teacher, Stahly Pere was a wealthy manufacturer. A month after graduating from dental school, Papa Stahly purchased Claude a going practice near the Eiffel Tower. Sisse must have turned sixteen shades of green. He was working as an assistant in an office near the Bastille.

The two dentists had a curious relationship at poker. In one of the first games I played, Claude followed a raise of Arthur’s.

“Look everybody,” said Bertier who enjoyed poking fun at the pair. “We’ve got a fight between the Rock of Gibraltar and The Rock of Ages.”

“Very funny, big mouth,” said Sisse. “Not everyone is as rich as you.”

Arthur asked for a card and came out betting. Stahly raised him. Lucky for Claude we only played draw poker at the time. Stud would have taxed his brain beyond its limits.

Arthur threw his cards away. He knew Stahly would never bluff him.

“What did you hit?” he asked. “A straight or a flush?”

“A flush to the ace, Arthur,” said Stahly, turning over his cards.

“You little creep,” said Sisse, turning red. “Just because your father is loaded do you think you can make a fool out of me?”

“I don’t understand, Arthur. Don’t you sometimes draw to a flush?”

“Not head-on, birdbrain. There’s no percentage in it.”

In the future Stahly would avoid playing against his pal. That was asking a lot out of a person who found it difficult to place cards of the same color next to one other. That, by the way, was Stahly’s tell. If he kept shuffling his cards around he had hit his hand. Whenever I saw his fingers were busy, I knew it was time to fold. Stahly liked to gloat openly and tell everyone how easy it was to bluff me. Sisse had done his job well. Stahly hated me too.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

In the conclusion to a story called “A Friend Of Kafka,” the 1978 Nobel prize-winning author, Isaac Bashevis Singer has his protagonist say: “if there is no God, who is playing all these games with me?”

I guess the battle between those who believe in free will and those who believe in determinism has been raging since before the time of the Ancient Greeks. Well let me tell you something: a person who does not recognize the presence of higher forces in the universe has never played no-limit Texas Hold ‘em. I swear to you, when a player is suffering a day of horror, the intervention of irrational forces will throw all his masterful planning and shrewd calculations out some celestial window. My friend, there is only one thing to do on a day like that – go home.

I doubt if there is a poker player alive who has not at one time thought he is the unluckiest player whoever sat down. Haven’t we witnessed a film clip of poor Phil Helmuth sobbing to his wife in disbelief: “honey, he followed me with an unsuited ace-jack!” Of course if Phil were to follow a raise and end up winning with those same two cards, well, that would only be normal. Pure skill, he’d probably say, or maybe: “I’m so intuitive it scares me to death.”

Yesterday was one of those miserable times for me. First I went to Bally’s, then to The Aladdin. Happily, I played for low stakes at both tables. Had I bought in for $1,000 I would have lost just a bit less than five times what I actually dropped. Unhappily, I ignored one of the oldest clichés in the Professional Repertoire of Poker Dictums: ‘don’t force a hand when nothing is working,’ because it is not necessarily a bad beat that will knock you for a loop. To the contrary, should a poker sprite decide to pay you a visit, the malicious imp will have more fun with the drip-drip-drip of a water torture than he would by drowning you with a single wave.

Mama Mia, did I play well for a while! If you’re going to compete in this town you had better know how to play defensive poker as well as going on the attack. In an hour and a half my best cards were a pair of pocket eights. Going all-in before the flop, I managed to chase the other participants out.

“All that for eleven dollars?” the man on the big blind remarked.

“Eleven dollars is a lot of money for me,” I said.

My cards continued to run lousy. The best hand I saw was a suited nine-six that I didn’t play because of a raise on my right. Smart, too! Nothing resembling those cards came up on the flop. Then I cracked. Dealt a queen-ten of diamonds, I raised the big blind from two to twenty. Three players came in. The flop was ideal: 8-4-2 of three different suits. We all checked, after which a second deuce came up on the board. Look here, I figured, nobody’s come in with a deuce so I might as well go all-in for my remaining thirty dollars. It’s a sure thing these guys think I’m holding a high pair. Well, I should have known better. Because there he was, some tight ass player who’d never followed a raise in his life with less than pocket queens who had suddenly been inspired to test his luck with a suited four-two.

Wiped out, I went to the next casino where I purchased only $60 worth of chips. I lost that on the third hand dealt when I went all-in with Big Slick in clubs. Okay, that happens, but can anyone tell me who or what caused my executioner to play an unsuited six-three against an all-in bet of Fifty-eight dollars? Inspiration, you say? Like those players on TV sometimes have? Okay, then who placed an A-K-2-4-5 on the board? In that order, no less!

There wasn’t much to do but go back into my pocket. I took out another sixty bucks and promised myself I’d guard them like Cerberus protecting Hades. A couple of hands later I was dealt wired jacks. Naturally, I went all-in for sixty bucks. Immediately to my left, some ass weighing about 400 pounds with a pile of chips that must have tipped the scales at half that amount announced he was betting $180. While fearing a higher pair, I was happy to see him chase the others out. Fatso turned over a pair of black threes. Yipee, I said aloud. ‘No threes, please.’ And none appeared. But the board did turn over a two-four-five-six-jack. Once again, the one person at the table who could beat me was the one person who called my bet. I didn’t even have time to ask the waitress for a drink. Well all I can say is this: Mr. Singer was right. If higher forces do not exist, then who was playing all these tricks on me yesterday?

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

The first day I played poker in Paris all I wanted was to get even with Jacques Ben Simon for the way he acted on a visit to L.A. That was in July 1969, a full ten years after some dimwitted French taxi driver dropped me off in front of Jacque’s place on the Rue de Tournon. I had asked to be taken to the Rue de Seine. Since one street is an extension of the other, I guess it didn’t make a great deal of difference. Then again, it did. Does the theory of causality – or is it causation - not claim that every event in one’s life is linked to a previous occurrence? Let me tell you, if that lazy taxi driver had gone another twenty meters it’s doubtful I would have ever become friendly with Ben Simon.

That was July 1959. Having recently graduated from college, Norman Lester and I were traveling together. Although we were friends from high school, we were as opposite as any two companions could be. Norman was ambitious, neat and studious while I was lazy, sloppy and more interested in sensual pleasures than in visiting museums, cathedrals and battlefields. After a week in London, penny-pinching Norman was fed up with the way I was throwing money around at cafes, pubs and restaurants. He did not want to stay at Ben Simon’s hotel. A friend of his from college had told him the cheapest places in town were near the Bastille. Only when Jacques uttered the magic word “shalom” did Norman relent. Even he was willing to pay a couple of dollars extra if they went into the pocket of a landsman.

In the decade that followed, Norman and I drifted apart. He went on to graduate school, marriage and a career in finance while I became a Euro bum. At the time, my only goal was to live in Paris. I would have sold body and soul for a tiny maid’s room and a stand-up toilet, as long as they were on the banks of the Seine. But it was not to be. No matter how hard I tried, I could not find a way to support myself. Jobs were unavailable and I was unable to attain French working papers. Throughout the turbulent 1960s, back and forth I went between Europe and the United States. In New York, I somehow managed to pick up enough money to get back to what was then the inexpensive Old World.

It was during those migratory years that I got to know Ben Simon. Much of my time in Paris, I stayed at his establishment. Besides being clean, well located and inexpensive, the hotel was a magnet for single females. Then, in the spring of 1969, Jacques sold the place. Like many North African Jews, his childhood dream was to immigrate to the United States. By then, I was married and living in Manhattan Beach, just outside Los Angeles. In May, Jacques called to ask if my wife and I could put him up. Happy to accommodate an acquaintance from our favorite place on the globe, we greeted him with open arms. I was earning pretty good dough selling carpets door to door, as well as spending afternoons playing poker in the shoddy card rooms of nearby Gardena.

Jacques stayed at our house for two weeks. He was looking to purchase a hotel or motel somewhere in California. Besides finding him a competent business broker, every day I drove him around: as far North as Santa Barbara, as far south as Tijuana. Not once did he offer to chip in for gas or pick up the tab at lunch. Evenings, before I went out to pitch carpets, we dined at home on money Karin spent at the supermarket. Not only did Jacques have a good appetite, he enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. He had no compunction about requesting steak, fish or roast beef, or asking if he could call his family in Paris. Every day Karin made up his bedroom, cleaned his bathroom and supplied him with fresh towels. Do you think the cheapskate ever thought to buy her flowers or a box of candy? Well, think again. On the eve of his departure, the three of us went to a modest restaurant where we dined for $15. Not until hell froze over did I intend to pick up that bill. For five or ten minutes it rested in the middle of the table. Finally, Jacques put on his glasses, reached over and picked it up. I mean he literally picked it up, that was all.

“That will be ten bucks for you,” he said, “and five for me.”

“What about the tip?” I said.

“I was hoping you would take care of that. I have the exact change prepared for my trip. It would be foolish to break a dollar.”

Karin did not want me to drive him to the airport.

“Let him take a taxi,” she said.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she asked. “We’ll never see him again.”

More wrong she could not have been. Because two months later, despising the carpet racket, but having saved up a few thousand dollars thanks to it, we found ourselves aboard a charter flight to Amsterdam. Next day we were in Paris. Since Jacque’s former hostel was being converted into an apartment building, we stayed at a place on the Rue de Seine. That afternoon I went to Maurice’s Bar next door to the former Hotel de Tournon. Not unexpectedly, there was Ben Simon, sipping a coffee.

“Well, well, look who is here,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I didn’t know it myself until after I bought the ticket.”

“I don’t live here anymore,” he said, “but I still come by regularly.”

“So I see,” I said.

“Guess why?”

“You must be putting the squeeze on Maurice,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Every afternoon I’m playing poker in a bar up the street. How would you like to come and play?”

As I said, all I wanted that day was to take money off the bastard who had stiffed me in California. That is a piss poor attitude for any professional player. Of course at the time I never expected I’d be playing poker for a living. I didn’t even know the French were familiar with the game. Fortunately for me, enough of them were. Finally, after ten years of struggle, I had found a magic key to open a previously impermeable lock. I guess you could say I owe Jacques Ben Simon big. Not really. Because a few months later, while I was away in Morocco, my original hope was realized. Ben Simon got wiped out in an all night game. Not that it changed anything for him.

“I refuse to pay,” he told me when I got back to town. “The rats got me drunk.”

“What did they do? Tie you up and pour whisky down your throat?”

“Very funny,” he said. “I don’t care what you say. I’m not paying.”

And he didn’t.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

Yesterday’s $2 - $5 no limit Texas hold ‘em game at the Wynn was unusually active, doubtless because a young man said he hadn’t slept for three days. With no maximum to the amount one could put on the table, several players, the insomniac included, were sitting with massive piles of chips in front of them. I guess that made my $200 minimum buy-in look rather puny. Well, what are you going to do? Isn’t everything around here a double-edged sword? For the moment, I prefer to err on the side of prudence. Too bad if such a philosophy enables others too muscle me around, because, at the same time it allows a patient player to risk little while giving him a chance to make a major score. Of course you need the right cards at the right moment, but there is no way you’re going to convince me that this isn’t a game of situations, often based as much on short-term luck as on long-term skill.

I put the sleepless fellow’s age at somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Unwashed, unshaved and disheveled, he looked as though he had fallen off one of the rides atop The Stratosphere. Still, the man was no slouch at cards. Well, let me qualify that: as the Good Lord is known to protect drunkards and idiots, so too, I guess, does He keep an eye out for insomniacs. Because, let me tell you, this guy was hitting cards like Albert Pujols knocking fly balls to the outfield at batting practice. So much so that he reminded me of Basil-the-Greek, one of the biggest suckers in our Paris game. Basil’s strategy was to play as many hands as possible, claiming that the law of averages would send him home a winner as often as not. The fact that he lost nine games out of ten mattered little to him. I imagine that was because once every six months or so he would get hot near the end of a game and emerge an enormous winner. On one such occasion his winnings were so great that they doubled the previous record. That prompted a snooty radiologist to say to me:

"You, l’Americain, you could never do that."

"Thank God,” was all I could reply.

Joe, as Sleepless-in-Las Vegas was called, played every bit as reckless as our Parisian Greek or the legendary Nick-the-Greek. Out of position, the wild man raised a hand holding the ten of hearts and three of clubs. When the flop displayed two black deuces and the ten of clubs, he was off to the races. His two hundred-dollar bet was quickly met by a player holding ace-two of diamonds, and by another with ten-king of spades. I’ll be damned if the fourth ten didn’t come up on the turn. Of course since the hand had not been played out, nobody knew who held what, or how many tens - or anything else - had been dealt. Suppressing a yawn, Joe tossed another four hundred dollars into the pot. With great reluctance, that put the player holding A-2 of diamonds all-in. Don’t ask me why the gentleman holding K-10 of spades didn’t move all-in at this point, but in any event it made no difference. Joe was not about to go to sleep with this hand anymore than he was ready to go upstairs to his room. Well, guess what? The river card was the three of hearts. Now when the maniac moved all-in he was of course paid in full by the unlucky sap holding the suited king-ten. The poor fellow couldn’t believe his eyes. Joe’s full boat, tens over threes, was a knockout punch to his tens over twos.

Now I’ve played with enough guys like Joe to know that sooner or later they will give it all back and then some. That was a huge advantage we in France held over the games that take place in Nevada. In Paris, winning players encountered the same suckers day-in, day-out. We were bound to recover the money we lost to them on occasional bad beats. Not so on The Strip. Because out of nowhere came Mrs. Joe looking for her husband. Don’t ask me how she found out he was playing at the Wynn when, as it turned out, they were staying somewhere down the street. But she found him all right, and in spite of the mountain of chips in front of him, she was in no mood to listen to his sweet talk. Irately, the woman shoveled the insomniac’s money into her purse and led him away, one hand clutching her bag the other attached to the collar of his shirt.

I remained at the table another ten minutes. After cashing in my $245 worth of chips, I thought maybe I too should run away from home and go off on a sleepless binge. I don’t think my wife would react like Mrs. Joe. While she would not hesitate to take those thousands of dollars of profit, more likely than not, she would tell me to try to make some more.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

The other evening at The Mirage, a lady of considerable heft and a totally baldheaded gentleman were commenting on acceptable poker procedures. Self-appointed experts on etiquette, the pair felt no constraint over expressing their disdain if an opponent happened to disagree with their point of view or act in a manner contrary to what they deemed proper behavior. Chopping and tipping were two of their favorite subjects. Chopping occurs when no other player follows the action, and the small blind and big blind agree to avoid a face-to-face confrontation by taking back their money. Seated immediately at Baldy’s right, he was not content when, dealt a pair of queens, I raised his big blind after every other player had folded.

“Don’t you chop?” he asked in a disagreeable tone, tossing his cards on the table.

“Sometimes,” I said. “In this case I think I should respect the cards.”

“Nothing doing,” said Madame Obese. “Either you chop or you don’t.”

“That’s right,” said the dealer.

“Really?” I said. “Who made up that rule? Is it carved in stone?”

“It is just good manners,” said the lady.

“Something not everyone has,” said Baldy.

“Well, you know what Jean-Paul Sartre said,” I rebutted, thinking back on the many times I came across the philosopher/writer dining at The Coupole in Paris with his companion, Simone de Beauvoir. “A man must create his own system of thought so as not to be enslaved by that of others.”

“Wonderful,” said Madame Manners dryly. “As if anyone knows who you are talking about.”

I let it go. Not because I was adverse to a verbal confrontation but because the hand in progress had captured my attention. A player’s fifty-dollar raise was followed twice before the bet came to me. I dropped out holding a suited king-queen, but my hairless neighbor followed. Well, to make a long story short, a player holding two sevens flopped a set and wiped out his opponents, two who were dealt a higher pair, and Baldy who held Big Slick. After winning four or five hundred dollars, the gentleman tipped the dealer five bucks and quit the table.

“That’s about as disgraceful a tip as I have ever seen,” said the fat lady.

“I’ll say it is,” said Baldy. “A person who wins a hand like that should tip at least five percent.”

“I agree.” Madame nodded vigorously.

“Thanks,” said the dealer. “A few dollars more would have been nice.”

Pretty much aware of what I was getting into, I said maybe if the casinos augmented their employee’s salaries we could do away with tipping altogether.

“After all,” I concluded, “has anyone ever seen a dealer return a dime to a player who has dropped a bundle on a losing hand, even a person who has tipped generously all evening?”

Nobody gave me the finger or booed out loud, but the dagger-throwing glances cast my way by Fatty, Baldy and the dealer let me know that my idea did not concur to their way of thinking. Since it was late in the evening and I was about even, I stood up and said goodbye to a perfectly silent table. Other than a bad beat, I can think of little I appreciate less than a morality lesson from poker opponents.

The following morning I drove my Honda to a garage I had picked out of the yellow pages. A computer-generated light on the dashboard continued to indicate something was wrong. Damn, why had I spent $170 at another garage less than a month previously just to discover that a problem still existed? Tom, the owner of the appropriately named High Road Automotive told me that this particular light received information from 32 different sensors. Hooking the car up to a fancy machine, he informed me that the problem was with something he called, the catalytic converter. That, he said, was a job that would probably cost in the neighborhood of $500.

“That’s pretty steep,” I said. “Can’t you do it for less?”

“I can’t, but Honda can. You’ve only gone 61,000 miles. For this kind of problem your warranty is good until 80,000 miles.”

Tom directed me to a nearby Honda agency. Sure enough, even with a seven-year old car, I was 100% covered for the type of job at hand. Instead of raking me over the coals, a perfect stranger had saved me four or five bills while earning nothing himself. Returning to his garage, I let Tom know how much I appreciated what he had done.

“I only did what is right,” he said. “How can I charge you when I know you can get the job done for nothing?”

“Most people don’t think that way,” I said.

Tom shrugged. “That’s their problem. I like to feel good about myself.”

After discovering that Tom and his wife were into organic food, I went to a special market where I bought a mixture of fruit and vegetables for $25. If proper poker etiquette says one should tip a dealer 5% for randomly distributing cards that end up winning a big pot, I guess the same percentage would be correct if a garage mechanic saves you a similar amount. I really don’t know, but I hope to find out tonight from Madame Fats or Mr. Bald when I go to play poker on The Strip.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

Light on the Seine in autumn resembles rays reflected off a mountain lake. Early morning wisps of fog obscure the far side of the river. By mid afternoon shadows dance across the façade of Notre Dame.

Darkness comes early. Wind from the north rips through the city. Children wear scarves and boots. Fewer baby carriages appear in parks and gardens. Winter fruit replaces the previous array of plums, peaches and apricots. As hunting season advances, pheasants, partridges and wild ducks hang from the walls of butcher shops and specialty stores. The wind scatters paper and other debris. Pedestrians walk with difficulty. The gates of Luxembourg Gardens close long before dinnertime. Café terraces are sealed in glass. Interior lights remain illuminated throughout the day. Piles of leaves accumulate in damp clusters. Braziers with fresh roasted chestnuts appear on street corners everywhere.

Light in November is flat and bright in Las Vegas. In daytime, a person with sensitive eyes needs to wear sunglasses when driving. Away from the great hotel/casinos the city is jumble of Americana: electric wires, McDonalds, KFC, Home Depot. Lying in a valley, the desert air is pure and clean. Snow can be seen on mountaintops off to the west. In an odd way, The Strip bisects Las Vegas the same way the Seine cuts Paris in two. East Strip-West Strip, Left Bank-Right Bank. Along the famed boulevard pedestrians dodge motorists day and night. At ten in the morning diners occupy seats in the Oriental restaurants on Spring Mountain Road. The mood is festive and gay, as though a nonstop party is taking place. It reminds me of Paris many years ago, and still sometimes today.

I stopped off at the Palms yesterday. By consensus, The Palms offers one of the best games in town. The action is fast and continuous. Closer to my apartment than the hotels on the Strip, I save all sorts of time when I go to the Maloof Emporium.

My attention was fixed on a young Chinese player two seats to my left. Betting recklessly, he was playing eight hands out of ten. Seated between us, his pretty girlfriend continued to tap her fingers nervously against the table. Twice she lost close hands and had to purchase more chips. How such a young girl could come up with $500 a shot was a mystery to me. Perhaps she and her boyfriend had a common bankroll. Then again, he looked no older than she did.

No limit Texas hold ‘em is to other games what mad Nijinsky was to rival dancers. You can be more calculating than Howard Lederer, experienced as Doyle Brunson or as laid-back as Jesus Ferguson and still be in for plenty of surprises. For example, what could induce the fat English pro sitting at the far end of the table to follow me every single time I raised? Didn’t he recognize a fellow professional? I mean I went out of my way to avoid following him and the bespectacled gentleman on his left, both who were playing every bit as tight as I was. Twice the limey came in head to head against me holding an ace and a rag unsuited. Twice we ended up splitting the pot when an ace and a pair appeared on the board accompanied by a king. Obviously my suited queen and jack made no impression on the fellow. I say there, Old Bean, can you not ascertain there is no percentage in that?

Smarter by far than the Brit, I continued to fixate on the young Chinese player. By the way he was throwing money around, I figured he must be heir to a shipping magnate, a factory owner or the proprietor of a restaurant chain. No way could he be holding good cards all the time. Still, he kept on getting away with highway robbery. Hand after hand he raked in the pot when no opponent would call his bet. Only if re-raised would he reluctantly drop out.

It took about an hour and a half before what I felt to be the proper situation arrived. I was ahead about one hundred dollars even though I had only won two hands all evening. Admittedly, I was pretty damn pleased with myself. Those two winning hands weren’t easy. No full houses, flushes or flopping sets for this old pro. Hell, I won the first hand with a King-eight when the board showed: king-nine-five-three-two, and the second when I held jack-ten and went all-in on a jack high board. Those are hand that can give a man ulcers, or send him to the poor house.

Finally, in the big blind position, I held two nines. As was his habit, the young Chinese player raised my five dollars up to thirty. Two comparatively weak players limped in behind him. Certain they would fold if I made a move, I went all-in when the bet came back to me.

“Call,” said the Chinese lad, with such authority that I knew at once he was sitting strong. As soon as the two limpers dropped out, he turned over a pair of red aces. Damn, had he been laying for me all along? I never found out. He gathered up my chips, nodded to his girlfriend and both left the table. Smiling daintily, she was pretty as a living doll. Wealthy too. She had made a comeback against the fat Englishman a few hands previously holding the same sweet pair of red aces.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

High stakes poker is a people game, not a card game. Betting is what separates the elite from the proletariat. Skillful players have a good idea how their adversaries will react to different sized bets. Professional players are fond of the term, money management. That’s because the expression allows them to identify with financial experts or Wall Street hotshots. More often than not, money management is little more than a term for betting. What is poker if not a series of wagers? Hand after hand participants bet on whose cards are better. That’s why the game must be played for money. If you played for matchsticks rather than cash, everybody would play every hand until the pips fell off the cards.

In the beginning in our games in Paris, when we played in a café/bar, the day’s winners were required to pay for drinks. Whenever he was losing, Alain Bertier, our art dealer superstar would throw down two or three drinks at a time. Weirdly enough, if he were winning he never was the least bit thirsty.

Since Bertier was Madame Nicole’s favorite, he tried to pull off a trick by conspiring with the café owner to defer paying the bill anytime he won. That way, the tab would be passed on to the next day’s victor(s). The bloody cheapskate goes ballistic if he has to pay for another person’s drinks. We did not let him get away with it yesterday.

Gaston the florist dropped out of the game, but he continues to come to the bar. Typically French, he slyly puts his drinks onto the poker bill. Bertier flipped out yesterday when he had to pay for Gaston’s two glasses of wine. Arms flailing, he ran across the street to the florist’s shop. ‘Give me back my six francs,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. Only after Gaston complied did Alain calm down. Then he placed an arm around the florist’s shoulder in hope of cadging a bouquet of throwaways to bring home to his wife.

Although France converted from old francs to new francs years ago, most poker players continue to use the former figures. Not Bertier! Art dealers comprehend the advantage of quoting merchandise in the cheaper-sounding currency. Thus if Pepe (Grandpa), a supplier of fruit and vegetables, says ten thousand francs, Bertier will often pretend he does not know the old boy means one hundred francs. A person does not sell Daum vases and Bugatti bronzes the same way one hawks turnips and rhubarb.

So there we were playing a hand of five-card draw. Alain opened for two hundred francs ($40) and Crybaby Fred called as did Baby Rose, an antique dealer from the Paris Flea Market. The instant Old Pepe bumped the pot to forty thousand francs ($80) Freddie threw his cards into the air.

“What is wrong with me?” he said. “Why do I follow every hand?”

“You don’t,” said Baby Rose. “You just think you do.”

“Call,” said Bertier, followed by his colleague from the flea market.

I was the dealer. Bertier asked for one card and Baby Rose took three. With a pair in hand, he wouldn’t fold if the bar were burning down.

“Two bremes,” said Pepe, using French argot for cards. The old man was chewing on a stick. After decades of smoking, he was fruitlessly trying to quit. Opposite him, Freddie was still moaning about his many losses. Nine players in all, it was a rare hand that saw only three combatants. Of course we were not as numerous every day. Poker players come and go like butterflies in a summer meadow.

After the draw, Bertier came out betting. “Ten sacks,” he said, slang for one hundred francs.

“Make that thirty,” said Pepe, ignoring Baby Rose.

“Tapis,” said Bertier, meaning: all-in. Trying to give the impression he was unsure of himself, the art dealer pushed his chips into the pot hesitantly. That meant only one thing: he was loaded to the gills.

Pepe paid immediately. Her had fewer chips than Bertier, but they totaled several hundred dollars nonetheless. Grinning from ear to ear, he showed he was holding four aces.

“Not enough for Le Grand Bertier,” said Alain, laying down his cards. “Four little arrows, ha! That’s kid stuff.”

Alain raked in the pot. I’ll be damned if the man didn’t have a spade straight flush from the six to the ten. He was going to regret all those vodkas he drank.

“Mein Gott im Himmel,” said the dentist Arthur Sisse. Arthur was fond of anything Germanic. Many of us suspected he was a cryptic Nazi. “A hand like that could not occur more than once in a decade.”

“Once every five decades,” said Pepe, shaking his head.

“Isn’t that just like Bertier?” said Baby Rose. “Only he has an ass big enough to beat out four aces.”

“His ass is too large to fit into my dentist chair,” said Sisse.

“Too large to pass under the Arch of Triumph,” said Baby Rose.

“Will you people shut up!” said Crybaby Freddie. “I’ve heard enough of your nonsense. One would think you had never played poker before. What’s so special about this hand? I’ve been losing with four of a kind since the first day I played the game.”

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

After thirty years of playing poker in Paris, this is one Jewish New Yorker who has concluded that nothing – but nothing - can top a breakfast of lox, bagels, cream cheese with chives and a couple of slices of Swiss. Croissants, brioches and baguettes just don’t make it compared to NYC deli fare. Not that Parisian breakfasts aren’t magnifique. Believe me, they are far better than what I’ve been snacking on since arriving a month ago in Las Vegas. So yesterday I decided to seek out a gourmet shop selling Nova Scotia, or perhaps even smoked salmon from Scotland, Denmark or Norway. What I found instead was pure schmutz.

Come on: don’t try to tell me that a good percentage of Las Vegas tourists and residents aren’t landsmen. You hear as many nasal accents and dese-dem-n-doses on Fremont Street as you do in Brooklyn. So what gives? Why isn’t a decent slice of lox or Nova available in delicatessens and supermarkets in this desert version of The Promised Land? I swear, after making a dozen phone calls and visiting half as many food emporiums, all I came across was an inedible package of some pink-colored dreck I wouldn’t feed to my neighbor’s cat.

‘Oh, I get it,’ I said, finally catching on. ‘They must sell the good stuff at casino delis on The Strip.’

Both Caesar’s and the MGM Grand offer offshoots of the NYC Stage Deli, and the Mirage houses a Western likeness of Broadway’s famed Carnegie Delicatessen. True to the home site, Carnegie even serves a Woody Allen Sandwich, a combined corned beef- pastrami monster weighing in at about 2 1/2 lbs for which a jaw the size of a hippopotamus is required if you hope to bite into it. The meat alone makes a platter sufficient to feed a family of eight. Nor was I going to overlook a country cousin of the New Yawkers. A Los Angeles deli named Canters occupies enough space to feed a score of minions inside the Treasure Island hotel/casino. Mais oui, I was on the right track at last.

“Azzoyzick shti!” my Russian/Polish/ grandfather would remark. “So that’s what you say!” True, each of those delis does serve a lox or Nova platter, but not individual take-out slices sold by the pound. Well excuse me! I was not about to allow a goyishe employee fix me a bagel when I knew I could do a better job myself. Anyway, at $17 or $18, I might just as well have purchased a lacquered duck in the city’s burgeoning Chinatown.

A schmuck is a schmuck is a schmuck, wouldn’t you say, Gertrude Stein? What I mean is: as a professional poker player I should know better than to shoot dice or play blackjack. But that’s just what I did at the TI when the waitress at Canter’s refused to cut me off a few slices of lox. In thirty-five minutes I lost the equivalent of more smoked salmon than Katz’s Deli on the Lower East Side sells on a Sunday morning. Oy vay is mir! From now on I’m sticking to Texas Hold ‘Em.

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

My recent come from behind victory at the Wynn brought to mind a game in Paris when, playing lowball draw from nine in the evening until two in the morning, I was unable to win a single hand. Man, if ever I felt like a beat up fighter, that was the night. My head ached, my back was sore and my morale was lower than Chaliapin’s voice as Ivan the Terrible. All I wanted was to go home and sleep around the clock. Having seen my last chip disappear in the final hand, I stood up and reached into my pocket for the 8,000 francs ($1,600) I had lost. While our host began marking accounts, my friend Pedro da Silva leaned back and said:

“Hey, guys, what say we play two more rounds?”

“No way,” I said. “You bastards have beaten me bad enough as it is. Anyway, didn’t we agree not to accept any more prolongations?”

“C’mon, man, that’s only sixteen more hands.”

Since the other players were all in accord, who was I to dampen their parade? I asked our host for the minimum buy-in allowed, 500 francs or $100 worth of chips.

“Get real,” said the photographer, Herve Simeon. “Do you expect to make a comeback with that?”

“I don’t,” I said.

All night I had held face cards, trips, two pairs and pat flushes. Had we been playing regular draw, I might have been ahead several times what I was losing. Equally behind, Pedro asked for 5,000 francs worth of chips. The marble broker had drawn out on me on three separate occasions when I was dealt pat eight hands.

“Don’t you ever fold?” I asked him.

“Are you crazy? Do you know how many small cards are left in the deck?”

I did know. Sixteen cards would help his hand while twice as many would bust him. Pedro thought nothing of drawing head-to-head at a two-to-one disadvantage.

Roland-the-Corsican was kind enough to put up my 50 francs ante. On the very first hand, I was dealt A-2-3-7-K. Second in line, I opened for 400 francs. Making a raise to 800, Pedro was called by three other players, and of course by me, all-in at 500. ‘Please give me a four, please give me a four,’ I implored the poker gods. I’m telling you, the damn game can drive you up the wall. But what do you know? Dealt the most beautiful four of hearts that ever existed, I won the hand and raked in 2,900 francs. My morale mounted the scale from bass to tenor.

From half asleep I was suddenly alert. For the first time in hours, I was looking forward to the next hand. One by one I picked up my cards: 4, 2, A, 6, 3. Holy Bazooka, I was holding the perfect low. Not about to play it cool, I opened for 400 francs. Jean-Paul Alphand raised me to 3,000 and Pedro went all-in at 4,100. Poor Alphand had been dealt a pat 7-5-4-2-A. Both he and I stood pat while Pedro broke his 10-9 and caught a pair of queens. Raking in 9,100 francs ($1,820), I gave Roland back the chip he had anted for me the previous hand. Fourteen hands later we called it quits. I had given back 700 francs in antes and ended up losing 150 francs on the evening, but I’m telling you, I felt as though I were the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

I played at The Wynn yesterday afternoon, quitting after I won $100. If not out shopping, Georges de Frayville must have been trying his luck at another casino. I left him a voice message, but I doubt he will call me back. I really don’t know why he contacted me in the first place. In Paris we had never been all that friendly. Suffice it to say, I was glad he was the catalyst in breaking my jinx at the most elegant establishment in town. Perhaps I should not have mentioned the recent riots occurring throughout much of France. Frenchmen, particularly those in privileged socio-economic situations, do not like foreigners pointing out the many ills their country is currently suffering.

On my way home I stopped off for a drink at the RIO. With a hankering for a Pisco sour, I assumed that if anyplace in Las Vegas were to serve the exotic Peruvian/Chilean white brandy, it would be at a South American themed casino. No dice. “Sorry, Senhor, no Pisco today,” I was informed. Oh well, putting my thirst aside, I walked over to the poker room where a no limit Texas hold ‘em tournament was getting underway. That made for immediate seating at a $2- $5 cash game. Fixed between $100 and $500, the required buy-in was right up my alley.

Often people ask why, other than at Binions and Wynn, casinos place a ceiling on buy-ins. I guess it’s because they don’t want one or two smart alecks plunking down thousands of dollars and thus scaring others away. It’s the house’s business to fill up as many seats as possible (generally nine or ten at a poker table), not to cater to the whims of nouveaux-riches showoffs. As it is, no space pays less per square foot than that allotted for poker. The manager of a popular card room told me whereas other table games bring in $150 an hour per player, and each slot machine generates a profit of $75 an hour, poker, with it’s small rake and no house participation is only worth $5 an hour per player. The casinos offer the game because of its huge following and because it brings people inside who might end up at blackjack, craps or the slots.

A word to the wise: do not sit down to play poker when a tournament is about to commence. Within ten minutes of my arrival, five of nine players quit our table in favor of the $70 buy-in challenge (with one $65 re-buy). Cash prizes would be awarded on a basis of the number of people participating. So here were the rest of us: losing the same amount when our cards didn’t hold up, winning peanuts when they did. With fewer than five players, a game tends to deteriorate into an attempt to steal $7 worth of blinds. I quit when sixty of my hundred bucks were depleted through attrition. True, if one sticks around long enough, players knocked out of the tournament will return to the cash games, but that might cost you a lot more than you think.

A few blocks away, I turned off Flamingo Road, south onto Jones Street where I knew a Peruvian-Mexican Restaurant was located. Due to traffic, it took me a while to turn into the seedy driveway that housed the eatery. Only one customer was inside, a drunk half asleep at a cafeteria style table. I asked the proprietor for a Pisco sour.

“Sorry,” he said. “No Pisco today. “I ran out last week.”

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

Georges de Frayville, an acquaintance from Paris called me last night. He was staying at the Wynn. Would I like to come over for a drink? You bet I would! Besides greeting a face from the old days, Georges (French spelling) used to be one of our better poker clients. Not only was he quite wealthy, the man was rarely able to suppress his curiosity over the next card while maintaining a habit of throwing oodles of fresh money after a few losing chips.

Driving across town, I thought of the man who had built the great palace. While I deeply admire Mr. Wynn, I try to steer clear of his casino. Not because of any defects in the place, but because - until yesterday – it had been unlucky for me. Well, let me amend that slightly: could management have not shelled out another $100 or $200 on butter dishes to go along with the rumored $2.7 billion spent on everything else? I mean, here in the lap of the utmost luxury imaginable, a breakfast diner (breakfast in Las Vegas being a 24/7 affair) is served the most common supermarket butter, wrapped in difficult-to-open frozen paper patties. Really, Messieurs, no Parisian restaurateur with an eye for quality would commit such a faux pas. While I’m at it, here’s another tip: you might want to try Darigold Butter, a USA brand that’s nearly as good as most Normandy butter. I could add a few other ideas, concerning valet parking and the upgrading of a not very interesting wine list, but I’ll wait until Mr. W- calls me personally before revealing those.

Unfortunately, Georges did not want to play poker. An inveterate, sometimes compulsive gambler, the Frenchman much prefers games of chance to one that requires a little thought, a touch of patience, some discipline, a wee bit of psychology and a modicum of self-knowledge. Nor was he about to buy me a drink.

“Quickly,” he said after we had exchanged two Gallic cheek-kisses. “Direct me to the baccarat tables. I want to show your compatriots how to play a French game.”

Since Georges had flown into town several days ago, he knew very well how to find any table in the house. While he fell into a gaming-induced trance, I tiptoed off to the poker room.

I’ll say this about Las Vegas’s most glamorous mega-casino: there’s plenty of action. Two, perhaps three hundred players occupied seats at the various poker tables. A bit wary of my recent luck - or lack of it - I opted on the side of prudence. Oy vay! When it comes to low stakes no-limit Texas hold ‘Em at the Wynn, the blind structure, for some unaccountable reason is small blind: one dollar, large blind: three dollars. Let me tell you, when you are used to playing at one-two or two-five tables everywhere else, those three-dollar chips (individually or en masse) can confuse you no little. Half the players take them for ones, the other half for fives. If you choose to make a ten or twenty dollar bet, someone, maybe the dealer, is bound to request you make it easy on everyone by betting either nine or twenty-one dolars. Some of the more seasoned players have skirted this problem admirably. Instead of announcing the amount of a bet they tell you the number of chips they’re wagering. “Call your bet, and raise thirty-two chips.” Yeah, great!

Happily, even a mathematical dunce like me can figure some things out. More likely, I was catching on because after an hour and twenty minutes I was down from two one hundred dollar buy-ins ($100 is the minimum; there is no maximum) to six little pink chips, or $18. The Wynn curse was at it again. Damn that Georges! Couldn’t he have gone to Caesar’s where the poker room isn’t scheduled to open until December 1st?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the belief that miracles will never cease was dramatically confirmed. The player directly on my left raised my $3 big blind to $9. With four followers, including the small blind, I threw two more chips into the pot. All I had was the eight of hearts and the six of clubs, but what difference did that make? I was playing the money, looking for a five to one or better payout with no concern for the cards I was holding.

The flop was six-ten of diamonds and the six of hearts. A player betting 13 chips or $39 was called for a like sum by the man on his left, and by me for my remaining nine bucks. That put $60 in a side pot, leaving $77 in the main pot ($81 minus a $4 rake). The turn was the three of clubs and the river was the jack of spades. Both of my adversaries were looking for diamond flushes that didn’t arrive. After tipping the dealer two dollars, I had $75 in front of me. On the very next hand I held two nines. Still $125 behind, I limped in behind three other limpers. The flop was six-eight-nine in three different suits. Out came the big blind with a $30 bet, followed by a lady on my right. Afraid of a straight, I simply called. A six turned over giving me a full house. Big-Blind bet $42, followed by Madame, then by me which put me all-in. The river was the queen of hearts. Big blind went all-in, about $250. By now I was sure that he held either two queens or two sixes. Wrong! When Madame threw her cards away (God alone knows what caused her to follow), Big Blind proudly displayed a ten and a jack, giving him a straight to the queen, and giving me $220 after rake and tip. Winning three of the next five hands (two with full houses, one with a flush) I was $465 richer than when I had arrived. That was thirty-seven times my money back from the initial eight-six of the big blind that brought about a change in my fortune. My fifteen minutes of happiness had finally arrived (happiness, Mr. Warhol, not fame. Pure joy is what poker players experience in such a hot streak).

I looked for Georges but he was nowhere to be found. His room did not answer. Not that I cared very much. He said he would be staying in Las Vegas another couple of days. Now that the Wynn has become my favorite casino, I shall look him up when I return to play this afternoon.

WMM/PPN

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

Games were arranged seven days and two or three nights a week during my thirty year stint as a professional poker player in Paris(1969-1999). Many of the pros felt obliged to attend every session, and even arranged games during school vacations - winters at ski resorts such as Courchevel and Alpe d'Huez, and summers in Cannes, Deauville or Saint Tropez. Not this Pro. By far the laziest in the professional ranks, I limited myself to 4 day games and 2 night games (=24 hours)a week. Only once did I arrange a summer vacation based on poker. That was August 1976. Besides losing over $6,000 at poker, my villa in St. Tropez cost $2,200, car rental cost$1,000 and additional expenses (The French Riviera is bloody expensive in summer)came to about $3,000. Believe me, at summer's end I was in pretty bad shape. But in the long run it worked out to my advantage. I was introduced to a many new players and a whole different coterie of games. Since I paid my debt (a few weeks later in Paris; typically, not every losing player paid up) and since I was considered a sucker, I was invited to games all over town. In the 22/23 succeeding years I recouped that $12,000+ loss too many times over to count. It was about that time that Texas hold 'em began to catch on in Paris, replacing draw poker. That was because a group of French baccarat players on a gambling junket to Nevada had tried their hands at poker. Unable to comprehend the English title of this new game, they called it 'Las Vegas,'a title that remained until the mid 1990s when poker clubs began to take over from private games. Basically conservative, many Frenchman resisted the novelty, but in the end their fondness for gambling prevailed. Draw poker was like a fading music hall dancer whereas Texas hold 'Em became the newly discovered high-kicking sensation. But if Passions were aroused so were problems. Any version of stud poker entails taking one's time. This conflicted with an assinine French convention that insisted on immediate raises (whatever immediate means). Arguments and hostile confrontations became daily occurences. This transition period was a tough time for pros and amateurs alike. Implicit in Gallic thinking is a desire to complicate matters rather than keeping them simple. Well complicate them, they did, but more on that another time.

WMM

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

TALES AND TELLS


It’s a mistake to say all Parisian art and antique dealers are crooks. A few honest dealers can be found. You just have to make one hell of an effort. At our poker table, Freddie-the-Weeper was lily white. Blanc-bleu, is how they say that in French. That’s why, he claims, he never got rich. Not that Freddie’s done badly. The crybaby owns a large apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement and a country home in the Dordogne, pretty good for a peddler of military articles and historic objects.

Little Pete (Petit Pierrot) was on the other side of the fence. He might have been doing poorly at cards, but man was he raking in the dough as an art merchant. Oh, the naughty things one learns at a Paris poker table. Pete himself liked to brag about his shenanigans. I’m telling you, if Messieurs Luciano, Costello and Lansky had known what was going on in fancy Parisian galleries, they would have no doubt forsaken guns and gangs.

Little Pete measures about five foot one. An occasional player, he comes to our table mainly to touch base with our superstar, Alain Bertier. Alain, or Aline or Madame Aline is one of the world’s leading dealers in art nouveau and art deco. Rumor has it he began his career as a runner for a homosexual dealer on the Right Bank. With no compunctions about lending his body to get ahead (pun intended), our boy rose up the ladder very quickly. Sex aside, Bertier would have been successful in whatever he did. Intelligent and ambitious, he has a will of iron. I don’t know why he tolerates Pierrot. Maybe he sees something of his younger self in the runt.

I’ll say one thing about Little Pete: he’s not afraid to bluff. When he asks for a single card at draw, he’s likely to come out betting. That makes it my job to figure out what he’s got. Happily, Petey makes it easy for me. His clients might not be able to tell the genuine goods from the counterfeits he sells, but at poker he’s as easy to read as the Happy New Year sign on top of the Eiffel Tower. All one has to do is make him talk. If Pierrot opens his mouth, he’s bluffing; if he keeps it shut he’s hit his hand. Of course there’s a method in how one goes about doing this. In my case, I say: “my time to pay.” Now if Pete says: “take all the time you want,” the last thing in the world I’m going to do is pay him right away. Don’t ever let an opponent know you’ve caught on to one of his tells. So I’ll toss a coin or count my fingers or throw in my chips disgustedly, so as to give the impression I don’t know what I am doing. That usually evokes Pete to say something equivalent to: “God damn it, I can’t beat this American bastard in poker or in flipping coins.” Well don’t feel sorry for the miniature man. I cannot count how many times he’s sold Rodin’s statue, “The Kiss.” Pierrot claims more than a hundred.

Francois-Auguste-Rene Rodin authorized seven versions of his exquisite bronze before breaking the mold in which the statue was cast. So where did those extra copies come from? That’s hardly the point. If given a chance, most any dealer would do what Little Pete does. What sets Pierrot apart is not his dishonesty but the fact that he is a member of a committee appointed by the French Ministry of Culture, and confirmed by the Louvre Museum, the purpose of which is to protect French art and artists from deceit and fraud. Hell, they might just as well have named him Official National Counterfeiter.

In both the world of art and the world of poker, Pierrot is a relative minnow. Wait till you see Bertier. Now there is a great white shark, and a subtle one at that. Monsieur maintains a gallery up the street from the café where we play poker, but most of his business is conducted in auction halls or from his domicile. The boutique is more or less a front. Madame Bertier, Claire to her friends, tends shop. Not only does that allow her to keep an eye on her husband, it helps keep the tax people at bay. A compulsive buyer, Alain has stocked his emporium from floor to ceiling with bronzes, furniture, glassware and anything else created between 1890 and 1935. I don’t know how many times he has sold The Kiss, probably, never. Rodin is not one of his favorites. Didn’t I say he was subtle? Alain tends to steer clear of great names. No Manets, Monets or Gauguins for him. But don’t for a minute think that leaves him out of the counterfeit game. Au contraire, he and two fellow dealers have sold ten times as many bronze and marble statuettes of the Romanian born sculptor Demetre Chiparus than the master molded and cast on his own. Residing for many years in Paris, Chiparus produced about 2,500 statues in the 1920s and 1930s. So make your count. At roughly $4,000 apiece, the trio of French counterfeiters have raked in – you’ve got it - $100,000,000 from a relatively unknown artist.

At poker, Bertier has almost as many tells as false Chiparuses. Foremost is the sound of his voice. Brother, when he drops his voice an octave or two you had better head for the hills. The man is loaded. We all know it, even Claude Stahly the dentist whose brain is half the size of a pea.

Bertier prides himself on being the trickiest fellow in town. He cannot understand why someone as clever as he is loses at poker. He loses because he has little patience, no discipline, lacks money management and displays his tells as clear as a flock of blackbirds in a snowfield.

Alain draws a card. Stahly takes two. Clearly the dentist has three of a kind. He could never imagine drawing one or standing pat. A rock tight player, Claude raised before the draw. No way would he do so on the come. Bertier is probably drawing to a straight or a flush. Like most French players, he wouldn’t dream of folding if there were a chance he could catch a card to complete his hand. These guys are money in the bank.

“Parole,” says Bertier, glancing at his card. That means pass. Oh my God, he sounds like he’s getting ready to sing basso in a Russian opera. What did he do, hit a straight flush or four of a kind?

Stahly has heard it. Maybe he’s not so stupid after all. He is taunting Bertier by waving his cards in the art dealer’s face.

“What’s that you said, Alain?” he asks.

Bertier does not reply. He is trying to work an expression of fear onto his face.

“I think you said pass,” says Stahly.

Back then we played that passing made a hand incomplete. Instead of turning over one’s cards and allowing the better hand to win, the money stayed in the pot. Anyone else who wanted to join in would have to put a similar amount into the pot. That made for monster hands. It also made for collusion. At the end of a game, losing players would purposefully pass so as to get a chance to get their money back in one fell swoop. Leave it to the French to come up with a variation of logic that would have Descartes turn over in his grave.

“You know what,” Stahly continues, “I’m going to pass too.” He shows Bertier three aces before tossing his cards on the table.

Alain is shocked. The color drains from his face. He picks up his glass and throws it across the room. Madame Nicole who owns the place looks at the shattered glass before coming to our table.

“What’s this all about?” she says. “If you cannot behave I will not let you play.”

“It’s Bertier,” says Henri the electrical equipment salesman.

Madame calms down. Bertier is her number one client. Dealers, collectors and art historians from all over the world come to see the big man.

“What’s wrong, Cheri?” Madame Nicole asks Alain.

“He saw my cards,” says Bertier, pointing to Stahly.

Stahly laughs. “How could I see your cards? I’m sitting opposite you.”

“No one has to see your cards,” says Henri. “Every time you open your mouth you give yourself away.”

Bertier exhales. He knows Stahly is not a cheater. Henri’s words are puzzling him. Refusing to reveal his cards, he buries them in the pile. Since none of us want to contribute to a monster hand, the two adversaries split the pot. That’s about the first time I’ve seen Henri refuse such a hand. He must be winning for a change. The damn fool should have kept his mouth shut. What’s he trying to do, let Bertier know we are on to his tells? For a moment I thought the art dealer might catch on. That’s over with now. Bertier shrugs his shoulders and looks out the window. He asks for another drink and says let’s get on with the game. I can breathe easy. Nothing is more alien to Alain Bertier than introspection.

WMM

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

MARATHON GAME


Early in my career as a Parisian poker pro I found myself involved in what seemed to be an endless game. Karin, my German wife was visiting her mom so I had nothing better to do. Actually, I was opposed to games that went beyond seven or eight hours. All one ends up doing besides getting exhausted is hurting weaker opponents, often fatally.

Fifty-seven hours ago nine of us sat down to play poker. Now seven, we took a half-hour break at midnight Sunday when our host's wife came home unexpectedly. Jacques Collard was sitting buck-naked. Annie Alphand let out a scream. Jean-Paul Alphand and Collard are surgeons. They run a succsessful clinic together. I don't think either of them will be operating today.

Collard promised us he would take off his clothes if he ever recouped the five thousand dollars he was losing. He’s a nut. All poker players are nuts, doctors and antique dealers in particular. Collard was down about twenty-five thousand francs at dinnertime. That was last night. It seems like last week. Dinner was a couple of stale baguettes and a few pieces of old gruyere. The losers bitched and moaned about stopping to eat.

“The hell with food,” said Collard. “If I want dinner I’ll go to a restaurant. We’re here to play poker.”

“That’s not what you said when you were winning last time,” said Pedro Da Silva, a Portuguese broker in granite and marble.

“Oh, man, that was months ago.”

“What do you care about a few paltry francs?” asked Jacqueline, our sole female player that session. “Between your clinic and your father’s money . . .”

“I’ll tell you how much I care,” said Collard. “If I get my money back I’ll run through the streets of Paris singing the Marseillaise.”

“You'd be better keeping them on,” said Jacqueline. “There’s not much to see when they’re off.”

“Can you believe that damn Bertier,” said Da Silva. “The moment he recovered his losses he lit out of here like a man on fire.”

“What else would you expect from an art dealer?” I said. “They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Hey, you, Americano,” said Alphand. “No comments from the foreign brigade.”

“I guess that lowball hand still sticks in your craw,” I said.

“Damn right it does. A pat six-four against my pat seven-five.”

“Will you people shut up and play,” said Collard. “Who cares what happened last week?”

A few hours later Collard won a monster pot at stodgy old draw. We were playing dealer’s choice. The surgeon’s four nines beat Herve Simeon the photographer’s jacks over fives full house and Da Silva’s ace high flush. Collard’s mood suddenly turned for the better. He stood up on his chair and started to whistle. One by one he threw off all his clothes before rushing to the front door.

“Get back here, idiot,” said Alphand. “I’ve got neighbors.”

“Woo, woo, woo,” shouted Collard. “Allons enfants de la patrie . . . »

He regained his seat but not his attire. Annie Alphand was not due home till the following day. When she came back early she was shocked no little. Her apartment was decorated with cigarette butts, half-eaten sandwiches, empty bottles, a jar of urine and one naked physician.

“What in God’s name is this?” she sighed.

“This is my manhood,” said Collard.

“Quick,” said Simeon. “Somebody get a magnifying glass.”

Jean-Paul put an arm around his wife and led her away.

“This next hand,” said Herve, retrieving the cards, “is one I call ‘Cannack.’”

A pink pastel dawn is absorbing the last fingers of night. Up and down, up and down. We are on a mad roller coaster ride, in the bowels of a sinking canyon, traversing a drunken whirlpool. Since he got his money back, Jacques Collard has just about stopped playing.

“Is it true, Pedro,” he asks, “that you’ve been dating Catherine Deneuve?”

“Who told you that?”

“One of my patients.”

“How would a patient of yours know anything about me?”

“You’d be surprised what they know. Call four hundred and raise six hundred.”

Pierre Pegon lets out a sharp whistle. “Peace, peace! He is not dead, he does not sleep.”

Pegon teaches English literature at the Sorbonne. Shakespeare and Shelley are among his favorites. Since he is reciting in the original, Collard does not know he is talking about him.

“Go get ‘em, Jacquo,” says Jacqueline.

“He has awakened from this dream of life,” Pegon continues.

“All-in,” says Simeon. He uses the French word: ‘tapis.’

Collard makes a gurgling sound. He looks at Herve’s pile of chips. The photographer’s bet is close to four thousand dollars.

“What game are we playing?” Collard asks.

“Poker, idiot,” says Alphand.

“Poker high or poker low?”

“Take your choice,” says Simeon.

“Illegal remark,” says Collard. “You are not allowed to verbally influence an opponent.”

“I said, ‘tapis,’” says Herve.

“But I don’t know what game it is.”

“Then why did you make a raise?” I ask.

“Oh, man, it’s late. I mean, early. I’m in no shape to go on. Do you guys want a note from my doctor?”

“No,” says Simeon. “I want your money.”

Collard throws his cards on the table. Three kings turn over.

“That’s smart,” says Pedro Da Silva. “The hand is low-ball.”

“Low-ball?” says Collard. “Give me back my money.”

“No can do,” says Herve. I’ve got a straight to the five. I told you I could go either way.”

“Though this be madness . . .” says Pegon.

“How’s about putting a lid on your Anglo-Saxonisms,” says Collard. “I’ll be damned if you intellectuals don’t show off words as much as a nouveau riche shows off money.”

Jacqueline stands up. “I’ve had enough,” she says. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t do that,” says Alphand. “I’m down a small fortune.”

“What time is it?” says Da Silva.

“Going on eight,” I reply.

“Mon Dieu,” says Collard. “I’ve got an appendectomy at nine.”

“How much are you winning, Bill?” Alphand asks me.

“About the same as what you’re losing.”

“Will you settle for half in cash right now?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Of course you do.”

“In that case, it’s a deal.”

I want to go home too. Even though I’m winning big I don’t feel too great. Jean-Paul Alphand is one hell of a client. I want to keep his head above water, not drown him. Lately I’ve had a hand on him. All too often these damn Frenchmen take their poker losses personally. Maybe all players do. Well, if you’re going to be a success in this town you had better know how to take one step backwards in order to skip a few steps forward. The Frogs care more about style than they do about substance. That doesn't help them when it comes to poker. Even if they are all bastards,I love them, I tell you, I really do.

WMM

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

Returning to the United States after thirty years of professional poker in Paris I have, not unexpectedly, encountered in Las Vegas a different sort of player at the no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em tables than those I knew in France. Part of the reason is because over there we played on credit. Naturally that caused a myriad of problems, foremost of which was getting stiffed over and over again. But sans credit, how else could one make a living? It was a rare Frenchman (or lady) who would show up with more than a pittance of euros (francs at the time). More important still, we played in private games. That precluded access to the unlimited public one finds at casinos. Bad debts were built into the system, ridiculously so in the beginning when our activities took place in a public café/bar a few hundred meters down the street from the French Senate. Just about any passerby who asked was allowed to sit in at our overly conspicuous table. Eventually, thanks to a fellow called Pretty Boy (Belle Gueule) Roland Duclos we put a stop to non-sponsored players. An up-and-coming male model, Roland’s handsome face regularly graced the pages – sometimes the cover – of French fashion magazines. Since he was friendly with the merchant who managed a fancy clothing store across the street from our poker club, we regular players assumed he was a straight shooter who could be trusted. Impeccably dressed –Pretty Boy wore a smart Cartier watch, slightly scuffed cowboy boots and had a canary yellow sweater perpetually draped over his shoulders. Oh man, was he ever chic! And then there were his companions, one cover girl after another, each making her way up the perilous ladder of French high fashion. So when Pretty Boy asked if he could play with us, we were unanimous in our decision to deal him in. Okay, we were definitely influenced by the pretty blonde accompanying him. I tell you that near perfect smile, even if somewhat frozen, seemed pointed directly our way.

Wouldn’t you know it? The man turned out to be a first class schmuck as a poker player, but with cards that ran hot all afternoon. I guess even Phil Helmuth will admit that at any given moment a monkey can beat the Number One Player in the world (Mr. H- himself?) At day’s end Pretty Boy was two thousand francs or four hundred U.S. dollars ahead. Crafty Alain, an art dealer who was by far the biggest loser at our table made a splash of paying him off with twenty brand new one hundred franc bills. Duclos strutted over to his Blonde lady friend insouciant and cool.

“Hey babes,” he said. “You want to know something? Winning at poker is easier than making money in front of a camera.”

“Please, Roland,” she replied. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Sugarplum,” he said, “you name the restaurant - I’ll take you there.”

Arm in arm they sauntered away, smart and proud, out the glass front door into the cool night air, as fine and elegant a couple as any to be found in the City of Light. My were they good looking.

Next day Belle Gueule was at the bar bright and early. Seated alone with my first – or was it my second? - kir of the day, I felt three slight taps tap against my shoulder.

“Hey man!” the model inquired. “Isn’t there any action today?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Nor will there be any until you introduce us to that knockout from yesterday.”

“Who, Claudine? She’s just one of a hundred.”

“No kidding,” I said. “Well, don’t get antsy. The others will be here soon enough.”

And to be sure, one by one they appeared on schedule. Back then starting time for our poker games was more respected than an audience with the President of the Republic. Grandpa Pepe came with Whiney Freddie (isn’t there a crybaby at every poker table?), followed by the two dentists, the electrical supplies salesman and finally the art dealer himself.

“Let’s get cracking,” said Roland. “What kept you guys so long?”

Dullsville was the name of the game that afternoon. Other than his three kings losing to Alain’s three aces, precipitating a “now do you see what I mean,” comment from weepy Fred, nothing much occurred. When the final accounts were made, the big loser was Duclos, a deficit of one thousand eight hundred francs. That was really a rather insignificant amount for us. Somewhat in a state of shock, our latest recruit rose to his feet, removed a piece of lint from his blue cashmere sweater and ambled over to where his belted suede jacket hung on a coat rack near the café’s entrance. Ordering a glass of champagne, he rifled through his various pockets. Madame Nicole, the owner of the bar did not serve Dom Perignon or Crystal Roederer, but some obscure supermarket brand that cost about three bucks a bottle wholesale and retailed at one and a half greenbacks a glass. Man was that ever highway robbery when at the time a fillet of sole cardinale cost 30 francs ($6.00) at the Tour d’Argent, and Lucas Carton’s signature dish, woodcock stuffed with homemade foie gras, flamed at one’s table was the most expensive (as well as the best) dish in town at eighty francs or sixteen dollars a plate. Duclos downed his drink in a single sip and quickly slipped out the door.

Distracted by Pepe and Alain who were shooting dice into a felt dish called a piste, not a single poker player paid any attention to the male model. After the old man, a fruit and vegetable wholesaler crapped out, the art dealer took the dice in hand.

“All bets accepted,” he announced. (“On peut faire.”)

Henri the electrical supplies salesman bet two hundred francs, while we others bet fifty, thirty or twenty francs. In rushed Gaston the florist who risked five francs, one U.S. dollar.
“No more bets,” said Alain who proceeded to throw a natural seven. Quickly he turned to his right. Not to confront Henri or one of the dentists or me, or even Freddie who had wagered thirty francs.

“Give me my five francs, florist?” he shouted. “Right now.”

That was Alain in a nutshell. So what if he was selling Galle vases, Tiffany lamps and Ruhlman furniture at thousands of times the money wagered by the florist? Sure, the dough he raked in hand over fist selling art nouveau and art deco objects (as much fake as authentic) was what counted, but it was never quite as real to him as one simple coin from a gambling opponent.

About this time, Claude the dentist suddenly woke up.

“Hey, where’s that new guy run off to? He owes me eighteen hundred francs.”

Immediately we all sensed we had been stiffed once again. Appointed to go to the shop where Roland’s friend was closing up for the night, I inquired after the cover boy.

“Haven’t seen him all day,” the manager said.

The losing son of a bitch didn’t leave us a single centime. Of course his pal at the clothing store refused to acknowledge the debt, though he did promise he would call Duclos the next day. That turned out to be – well, I really don’t know what it turned out to be. Monsieur the shop manager just happened to pull off a disappearing act of his own. Policemen were swarming outside his store the following afternoon. Along with the gentleman himself, gone were the receipts for the week. The shop’s owner was furious, but no more than we poker players. It is doubtful whether there was any collusion between the two friends, but that was not going to relieve either’s debt. Old Amarillo Slim says that as a businessman he managed to amass several cigar boxes full of bad paper, but never once did a card player stiff him. Of course Slim never lived in France. Maybe that was why Mark Twain said something to the effect of man being neither angel nor devil, but rather a creature suspended somewhere between the angels and the French. Anyway, after the Roland Duclos escapade we insisted that new players pay cash in advance or be guaranteed by one of the established participants. Things did not work out too well there either, but I will have to tell you about that some other time.

WMM

If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker

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If you aren't playing with the author on the Strip, play with him at Pacific Poker