tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-184882702011-04-21T17:37:09.832-07:00Las Vegas Poker through the eyes of a Parisian GrinderParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.comBlogger481100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1136212782888931302006-01-02T06:36:00.000-08:002006-01-02T06:39:42.900-08:00

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.

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1136049819644040342005-12-31T09:18:00.000-08:002005-12-31T09:23:39.656-08:00

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,

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135792660677379432005-12-28T09:52:00.000-08:002005-12-28T09:57:40.690-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135695444675224532005-12-27T06:51:00.000-08:002005-12-27T06:57:24.690-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135610610981913092005-12-26T07:18:00.000-08:002005-12-26T07:23:30.993-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135521784654739642005-12-25T06:40:00.000-08:002005-12-25T06:43:04.666-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135349958946329012005-12-23T06:54:00.000-08:002005-12-23T06:59:18.963-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135263905155115992005-12-22T07:01:00.000-08:002005-12-22T07:05:05.170-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135172103693301302005-12-21T05:31:00.000-08:002005-12-21T05:35:03.703-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1135078247626813452005-12-20T03:28:00.000-08:002005-12-20T03:30:47.640-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1134314421533512002005-12-11T07:19:00.000-08:002005-12-11T15:25:47.796-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1134232522266104312005-12-10T08:31:00.000-08:002005-12-10T08:35:22.310-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1134147450714970782005-12-09T08:52:00.000-08:002005-12-09T08:57:30.726-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1134057735640512442005-12-08T07:56:00.000-08:002005-12-08T08:02:15.653-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133977304998337262005-12-07T09:32:00.000-08:002005-12-07T09:41:45.016-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133882438536587302005-12-06T07:17:00.000-08:002005-12-06T07:20:38.583-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133807136175970732005-12-05T10:09:00.000-08:002005-12-05T10:25:36.186-08:00

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.

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133703652736436802005-12-04T05:36:00.000-08:002005-12-04T05:40:52.756-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133626201825190062005-12-03T08:05:00.000-08:002005-12-03T08:10:01.840-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133536059239070752005-12-02T06:59:00.000-08:002005-12-02T07:07:39.253-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133454118318888632005-12-01T08:18:00.000-08:002005-12-01T08:21:58.336-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133375505071826732005-11-30T10:14:00.000-08:002005-11-30T10:31:45.086-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133274410993785012005-11-29T06:19:00.000-08:002005-11-30T08:14:14.580-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133200224310161132005-11-28T09:42:00.000-08:002005-11-28T10:51:21.013-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133108205400232662005-11-27T08:14:00.000-08:002005-11-27T08:16:45.413-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1133020343419488802005-11-26T07:48:00.000-08:002005-11-26T07:52:23.430-08:00

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,’

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132930235505121702005-11-25T06:45:00.000-08:002005-11-25T06:50:35.520-08:00

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.

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132846198608270752005-11-24T07:24:00.000-08:002005-11-24T14:59:55.543-08:00

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.

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132764839433531152005-11-23T08:48:00.000-08:002005-11-23T08:53:59.446-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132676422436634112005-11-22T08:17:00.000-08:002005-11-22T17:23:51.663-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132586825075969492005-11-21T07:22:00.000-08:002005-11-21T19:13:59.816-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132497297522520102005-11-20T06:30:00.000-08:002005-11-20T19:56:38.040-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132421959895647462005-11-19T09:36:00.000-08:002005-11-19T18:48:50.190-08:00

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,

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132329723823307052005-11-18T07:58:00.000-08:002005-11-18T17:02:30.556-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132247150289954632005-11-17T09:00:00.000-08:002005-11-17T09:05:50.300-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132162649121382402005-11-16T09:31:00.000-08:002005-11-16T13:19:54.226-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132073859720820862005-11-15T08:50:00.000-08:002005-11-15T15:01:45.540-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131895966379923492005-11-13T07:15:00.000-08:002005-11-13T17:13:16.260-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131721750227632732005-11-11T07:04:00.000-08:002005-11-11T13:06:25.226-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131645594798745642005-11-10T09:26:00.000-08:002005-11-10T14:38:58.833-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131549917429398122005-11-09T07:22:00.000-08:002005-11-09T07:25:17.440-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131458528637012732005-11-08T05:55:00.000-08:002005-11-08T08:30:14.376-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131394201919191642005-11-07T12:01:00.000-08:002005-11-07T12:10:02.076-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131291280396814732005-11-06T06:58:00.000-08:002005-11-06T14:20:23.823-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131213229245282882005-11-05T09:46:00.000-08:002005-11-05T09:53:49.260-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131121844856518732005-11-04T08:01:00.000-08:002005-11-04T08:30:44.866-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1131036809851814992005-11-03T08:50:00.000-08:002005-11-03T10:05:23.800-08:00

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

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18488270.post-1132500259909242642004-11-20T07:23:00.000-08:002005-11-20T07:24:19.920-08:00

Waiting for links...

ParisPokerNuthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03352425806949877635noreply@blogger.com0