ParisPokerNut - Acting in Character
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.”
