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#240 – London Journal #7 – Another Ted Forrest Misadventure
Walking fast through Mayfair, I sensed Ted Forrest did not approve of my career choice. I explained the circumstances that led me to discontinue my column with Bluff, which paid £600 per month. Although I never expected a poker player would be impressed with magazine wages – doesn’t the low card bring it in for more in Larry Flynt’s game? – Ted suspected I was getting an excellent return on labour.
“Isn’t that usually pretty easy work?”
“Sure,” I said, “Especially because I usually just hang around with you for a few hours and write down what happens.”
And so it continues.
I was hoping to find Ted Forrest in London and wasn’t disappointed. I saw him briefly while we were playing HORSE on Thursday [the 6th] at The Empire but, thankfully, not at close quarters. Walking in opposite directions, he asked, “Michael, do you have access to a non-U.S. web site?”
With that intriguing entre, which we never actually explored, we promised to meet up later. We were both eliminated from the HORSE on Thursday night.
On Friday at 5:30 PM, I returned to The Empire to watch some of the action as they played to the final table. Running into Ted as I entered, it turned out that I didn’t see a single hand of poker that day or night.
I was actually a little surprised to see Forrest, more so to find he was so acclimated that he rented an apartment in fashionable Mayfair near Curzon Street. On the one hand, Ted will play poker on the moon if the game is big enough, so I’m certain he has traveled more internationally than I. (His girlfriend Roxana is the one who found the apartment and is a citizen of the world. I think she may have lived in London at one time.)
On the other hand, international travel involves rules and procedures and Ted Forrest marches to his own beat – which may be no discernable beat at all. When we visited Mike Matusow in jail, he failed to observe the rule about producing ID, the rule about identifying the detainee by prisoner number (“I’m here to visit Mike the Mouth. Everybody here must know who he is.”), and the rule about maximum allowable visitors. (Erik Seidel coincidentally came by to visit and him and me, both with IDs, constituted the maximum of two visitors at one time.)
Ted still somehow visited Mike that night though, so procedures or not, Ted Forrest will prevail. So it made sense that he was here in London. (Forrest was not familiar with the Million Dollar Cash Game and, inquiring on his behalf, I found it was oversubscribed. He told me, “Make sure you write that they were afraid to play me.”)
We met by the counter in front of the entrance to the casino – remember, you have to show your membership card and receive a pass to enter – and he told me he was meeting a friend in front of the Angus Steak House and did I want to join?
Another Ted Forrest adventure? In London no less? Do you have to ask?
We arranged to meet at the restaurant in a few minutes time. Quickly, I tried to gather what was happening in the HORSE. They were down to four tables, playing by the staircase on the upper level. I found Chris Ferguson and Jennifer Harman, just as they were going on break. I said to both, especially to Jennifer, as if it was important TO HER, “I’ll come back late tonight to watch you make the final table.” We both pretended my presence would be essential. It was nice of her to play along, as she always does when I make such pronouncements.
I noticed Ted was next to me. He made small talk with Jennifer and a few others and together we left to meet Tibor at the Angus.
Tibor is a friend of Ted’s in Vegas. I met him at Ted’s house last summer. Tibor had flown to London that day and was meeting a former girlfriend. We left them alone and walked to Ted and Roxana’s Mayfair apartment.
London reminds me a lot of Manhattan, but Manhattan walks faster and with better choreography. If you stop walking in midtown Manhattan, no one will slow down and no one will bump into you. They’ll just flow around you.
London, especially at the end of the workday, is nowhere near this advanced. People amble, stop, wobble, double back, jostle, and bump. Ted Forrest, meanwhile, was doing the downhill slalom.
The apartment was in a tony area, very smart and exclusive. Ted and Roxana rented it from a management company that offers such an exalted level of service that they called the company when they couldn’t find the salt and pepper shakers and the company sent, within minutes, a representative with a box of each.
We went to a nearby Marks & Spencer Simply food to pick up dinner. I bought a bunch of items, as did Ted and Roxana. Roxana, I learned, is hell-bent on reforming some of Ted’s eating habits. (“One day, I tried to count everything Ted ate and it was disgusting. I counted about 10,000 calories.”) Forrest has an incredible constitution and metabolism, but he agreed that his weight was creeping up, so he consented to Roxana’s ministrations and has lost, I think 12 or 13 pounds. (Sorry, I can’t figure out how to convert that to grams or stones.)
Shopping without any real plan, we picked up no actual meals but portions of about a dozen meals. I started eating olives and couscous. Ted tore into a package of chicken while Roxana started mixing a salad.
As Ted neared the bottom of the chicken, he was slightly alarmed that it was more RED than he thought chicken should be. “Is this supposed to be cooked before I eat it?” he asked, scanning the ripped-open packaging.
“Oh my god, Ted!” Roxana exclaimed. “Did you just eat raw chicken?”
Even though they concluded the chicken was PROBABLY safe to consume, I said, “This is going in the blog.”
Forrest began to object but Roxana, who I get the impression battles with Ted on food and health pretty regularly, said, “No, I think it’s good that you write this.”
Glad to be of service in keeping Ted healthy.
(Last summer, it was the opposite situation. When I learned that Ted’s Trans-Am, The Bumblebee would need to be detailed prior to its sale because of the likelihood poker chips were hiding inside – there had once been $75,000 under the seats – Roxana didn’t want that published but Ted insisted. “May that will get a bidding war going.” Ted still owns The Bumblebee and told me he still intends to sell it, but it still needs a proper “cleaning.”)
Relaxing after dinner, it looked like Tibor was about to nod off, which was understandable since he had spent the last 15-20 hours in cabs, airplanes, airport lounges, and customs queues. Ted was telling an entertaining story about how he got barred from the Venetian for two hours – “they gave me a time out” – when he kicked over a water bottle at an empty table during a bad run and mentioned that he might have broken his toe.
Just about to leave to watch the evening play in the HORSE, I made my big mistake. “I think they have craps in London, at The Sportsman casino.” Next thing I knew, Ted was marching along Piccadilly, with me and Tibor struggling to keep up.
