An Unwelcome Frenchman
After thirty years of playing poker professionally in France (1969-1999), here in Las Vegas I can see that games are much tighter than those in Paris. One of the reasons is because over there we played on credit. Oh man, did that cause problems, foremost of which was getting stiffed again and again. But without credit, how was one supposed to 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, until the mid 90s, only private games existed. That precluded access to the unlimited public of poker clubs and casinos and made bad debts an integral part of the system.
In the beginning we played in a café/bar down the street from the French Senate. We were so naive back then that any passerby who asked was allowed to sit in at our game. It took a fellow called Pretty Boy (Belle Gueule) to put a stop to that. Belle Guele's real name was Roland Duclos. An up-and-coming male model, his handsome face regularly graced the pages of several French fashion magazines. Since he was friendly with the manager of a fancy clothing store across the street from our gambling locale, we regular players assumed he was a straight shooter. Always impeccably dressed, Pretty Boy sported a smart Cartier watch, wore slightly scuffed cowboy boots and made sure that his canary yellow sweater was properly draped over his shoulders. I tell you, he was chic - as only chic can be in Paris! Then there were his companions, one cover girl after another, each making her way up the precarious ladder of French high fashion. So when Pretty Boy asked if he could sit in with us, we were glad to make a place for him. I guess we all wanted to keep an eye on the blonde accompanying him that afternoon. Man, that girl's smile was about as perfect as a smile can get.
Wouldn’t you know it? Our new opponent turned out to be a first class sucker as far as poker was concerned. Still, with cards that ran hot all afternoon he managed to rake in his fair share of pots. I imagine even Phil Helmuth will admit that at any given moment a monkey can beat the best player in the world (Phil himself?) At day’s end Pretty Boy found himself the winner of two thousand francs, roughly four hundred U.S. dollars. Tricky Alain, a top art dealer who was by far the biggest loser at our table made a scene out of paying the model off with twenty brand new one hundred franc bills. Duclos strutted over to his lady friend like a matador who had just killed a bull.
“Hey babe,” he said. “You know what? Winning at poker is easier than sitting in front of a camera.”
“Please, Roland,” she replied. “I have not eaten all day.”
“Sugarplum,” he said, “you name the restaurant and I’ll take you there.”
Arm in arm they sauntered out the glass front door into the cool night air. I'm telling you, they were as fine a couple as any to be found in the City of Light.
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 a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey man!” Roland inquired. “What's with the action today?”
“It's coming,” I said. “But not until you introduce us to that knockout from yesterday.”
“Who, Claudine? Don't make me laugh. She’s one of a hundred.”
“Is that so?” I said. "Well, the others will be along shortly.”
Sure enough, one by one, our regular players arrived on schedule. You could bet that starting time for our poker games was as respected as an audience with the President of the Republic. Old Grandpa Pepe came with Crybaby Freddie (isn’t there a whiner at every poker table?), followed by two dentists, an electrical supplies salesman and finally our star, the art dealer himself.
“Let’s get cracking,” said Roland. “What kept you guys so long?”
Alas, that afternoon Dullsville was the name of the game. Other than Freddie's three kings losing to my three aces, (precipitating a “now do you see what I mean,” from the whiner) nothing much occurred. When the final accounts were made Roland Duclos was down one thousand eight hundred francs. While that was not too much for a lousy player, the man seemed to be in a state of shock. Rising slowly to his feet, he removed a piece of lint from his cashmere sweater before ambling over to where his belted suede jacket hung on a coat rack near the café’s entrance. He ordered a glass of champagne then rifled through his various pockets. You can be sure this particular bar did not serve Dom Perignon or Crystal Roederer, but some obscure brand that cost about five bucks a bottle at the neighborhood supermarket. Man it was highway robbery what Madame Nicole, the owner of the cafe charged for the bubbly, particularly at a time that 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 quickly, and slipped out the door.
Distracted by Pepe and Alain who were shooting dice, not a single poker player paid any attention to the male model. Soon the old man 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 plunked down a five franc coin, more or less 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 even Freddie or me who had risked thirty francs each.
“Give me my five francs, florist?” he shouted. “Give them here right now.”
That was Alain in a nutshell. As a trendy art dealer, he was selling Galle vases, Tiffany lamps and Ruhlman furniture at thousands of times the money wagered by the rest of us together. But even if the dough he was raking in from art nouveau and art deco objects (fake and authentic) was truly prodigious, for the moment that was not what counted. Those big bucks might have been more important, but they were never quite as real as a simple five franc coin.
Suddenly Claude the dentist turned around and let out a shout.
"Where’s that new guy Duclos gone off to? He owes me eighteen hundred francs.”
Immediately we all sensed we had been stiffed. Appointed to go to the shop where Roland’s friend was closing up for the night, I quickly inquired after the cover boy.
“Haven’t seen him all day,” the manager said.
And that was that. The losing son of a bitch didn’t leave us a single centime. Of course his pal at the clothing store refused to acknowledge Roland's debt, though he did promise he would call him the next day. That turned out to be – well, I really don’t know how it turned out. The damn shop manager just happened to pull off a disappearing act of his own. Policemen were swarming outside his store when I arrived the following afternoon. Besides the manager, the receipts for the week were missing. The shop’s owner was furious, but no more than we poker players. While I doubt if there was any collusion between the two friends, the second vanishing act was not going to pay the Duclos 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 between the angels and the French. Anyway, after the Roland Duclos escapade we insisted that new entrants pay cash in advance or be guaranteed by one of the established players. Things did not work out too well there either, but I will save that for another time.
In the beginning we played in a café/bar down the street from the French Senate. We were so naive back then that any passerby who asked was allowed to sit in at our game. It took a fellow called Pretty Boy (Belle Gueule) to put a stop to that. Belle Guele's real name was Roland Duclos. An up-and-coming male model, his handsome face regularly graced the pages of several French fashion magazines. Since he was friendly with the manager of a fancy clothing store across the street from our gambling locale, we regular players assumed he was a straight shooter. Always impeccably dressed, Pretty Boy sported a smart Cartier watch, wore slightly scuffed cowboy boots and made sure that his canary yellow sweater was properly draped over his shoulders. I tell you, he was chic - as only chic can be in Paris! Then there were his companions, one cover girl after another, each making her way up the precarious ladder of French high fashion. So when Pretty Boy asked if he could sit in with us, we were glad to make a place for him. I guess we all wanted to keep an eye on the blonde accompanying him that afternoon. Man, that girl's smile was about as perfect as a smile can get.
Wouldn’t you know it? Our new opponent turned out to be a first class sucker as far as poker was concerned. Still, with cards that ran hot all afternoon he managed to rake in his fair share of pots. I imagine even Phil Helmuth will admit that at any given moment a monkey can beat the best player in the world (Phil himself?) At day’s end Pretty Boy found himself the winner of two thousand francs, roughly four hundred U.S. dollars. Tricky Alain, a top art dealer who was by far the biggest loser at our table made a scene out of paying the model off with twenty brand new one hundred franc bills. Duclos strutted over to his lady friend like a matador who had just killed a bull.
“Hey babe,” he said. “You know what? Winning at poker is easier than sitting in front of a camera.”
“Please, Roland,” she replied. “I have not eaten all day.”
“Sugarplum,” he said, “you name the restaurant and I’ll take you there.”
Arm in arm they sauntered out the glass front door into the cool night air. I'm telling you, they were as fine a couple as any to be found in the City of Light.
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 a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey man!” Roland inquired. “What's with the action today?”
“It's coming,” I said. “But not until you introduce us to that knockout from yesterday.”
“Who, Claudine? Don't make me laugh. She’s one of a hundred.”
“Is that so?” I said. "Well, the others will be along shortly.”
Sure enough, one by one, our regular players arrived on schedule. You could bet that starting time for our poker games was as respected as an audience with the President of the Republic. Old Grandpa Pepe came with Crybaby Freddie (isn’t there a whiner at every poker table?), followed by two dentists, an electrical supplies salesman and finally our star, the art dealer himself.
“Let’s get cracking,” said Roland. “What kept you guys so long?”
Alas, that afternoon Dullsville was the name of the game. Other than Freddie's three kings losing to my three aces, (precipitating a “now do you see what I mean,” from the whiner) nothing much occurred. When the final accounts were made Roland Duclos was down one thousand eight hundred francs. While that was not too much for a lousy player, the man seemed to be in a state of shock. Rising slowly to his feet, he removed a piece of lint from his cashmere sweater before ambling over to where his belted suede jacket hung on a coat rack near the café’s entrance. He ordered a glass of champagne then rifled through his various pockets. You can be sure this particular bar did not serve Dom Perignon or Crystal Roederer, but some obscure brand that cost about five bucks a bottle at the neighborhood supermarket. Man it was highway robbery what Madame Nicole, the owner of the cafe charged for the bubbly, particularly at a time that 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 quickly, and slipped out the door.
Distracted by Pepe and Alain who were shooting dice, not a single poker player paid any attention to the male model. Soon the old man 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 plunked down a five franc coin, more or less 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 even Freddie or me who had risked thirty francs each.
“Give me my five francs, florist?” he shouted. “Give them here right now.”
That was Alain in a nutshell. As a trendy art dealer, he was selling Galle vases, Tiffany lamps and Ruhlman furniture at thousands of times the money wagered by the rest of us together. But even if the dough he was raking in from art nouveau and art deco objects (fake and authentic) was truly prodigious, for the moment that was not what counted. Those big bucks might have been more important, but they were never quite as real as a simple five franc coin.
Suddenly Claude the dentist turned around and let out a shout.
"Where’s that new guy Duclos gone off to? He owes me eighteen hundred francs.”
Immediately we all sensed we had been stiffed. Appointed to go to the shop where Roland’s friend was closing up for the night, I quickly inquired after the cover boy.
“Haven’t seen him all day,” the manager said.
And that was that. The losing son of a bitch didn’t leave us a single centime. Of course his pal at the clothing store refused to acknowledge Roland's debt, though he did promise he would call him the next day. That turned out to be – well, I really don’t know how it turned out. The damn shop manager just happened to pull off a disappearing act of his own. Policemen were swarming outside his store when I arrived the following afternoon. Besides the manager, the receipts for the week were missing. The shop’s owner was furious, but no more than we poker players. While I doubt if there was any collusion between the two friends, the second vanishing act was not going to pay the Duclos 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 between the angels and the French. Anyway, after the Roland Duclos escapade we insisted that new entrants pay cash in advance or be guaranteed by one of the established players. Things did not work out too well there either, but I will save that for another time.
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