#860 – To the Kings and Queens of Europe: I Salute You

From my house in Scottsdale, Arizona – from my office on the north side of the house to be exact – it is 5,258 miles, 4,060 feet, and 4 inches to the south entrance of Casino at the Empire in Leicester Square, London, England. (If you are reading this from outside the United States, that’s 8,463.168 kilometers. By the way, if you are from one of the 180 or so countries that relies on the metric system, leave a comment or email me at mrchaotic@aol.com. I am sitting here, 8,000 kilos from the action because Full Tilt doesn’t believe you exist in sufficient numbers.) Thanks to the internet and sites like Google Maps Distance Calculator, the world can seem like a small place. But right now, with the third World Series of Poker-Europe underway, the world seems as large as it was to peasants during the Middle Ages who thought if you traveled too far you would sail off the edge of the earth into The Abyss, or, worse, into the jaws of The Dragon.

If there is anything worse than the feeling of a gambler out of action, it’s the feeling of a reporter away from the action. I am depressingly familiar with both right now.

I participated in the first and second World Series of Poker-Europe. I played both years and wrote about the scene. In every event in which I played, I could specifically recall – but from where? – feelings that this must be how the World Series of Poker felt during the Seventies and Eighties. Particularly because so much of my knowledge of the Series in those days came from books by Anthony Holden and Al Alvarez, it felt very familiar being part of an intimate, unusual competition all those miles/kilometers from home.

I had the special pleasure of being there for the beginning of an event that I believe is destined to become an institution. I held the entire history of the World Series of Poker-Europe in my head, in my blogs, and in several folders I saved of notes and ephemera. (My collection includes things like a pocket map of the London Underground, a menu from Lee Ho Fook’s, the business card from Montblanc UK on Old Bond Street, and my membership application to the The Fifty). Without me there, it’s all slipping away.

Typically, I would excoriate Uncle Tilty for his short-sightedness in turning down my offer to return to Leicester Square. But that’s not appropriate. Having someone pay me to fly first-class 5,000 miles, stay in phenomenal hotels, and in every other way travel in the highest style with almost no oversight, requirements, or limits, is a wonderful gift and he let me do this two years running. (When you catch me in a less appreciative or sentimental mood, I’ll tell you how hard I worked and how Uncle Tilty got a huge bargain. But on this one occasion, I should recognize that the writing business offers few opportunities even for a hard working genius to receive good pay, good travel, and independence.)

But none of this means I can’t mope. That I’m not a successful enough poker player to fade the hotel, airfare, and numerous other expenses as juice for a couple of poker tournaments. That I couldn’t get so many people excited about my coverage the last two years that it was necessary that I be there. That I didn’t play better or do better in the first two WSOP-Europes.

The conventional wisdom is that activities like complaining, whining, moping, and grousing are unproductive. I believe otherwise. I’m not going to be able to tell you about the all the fascinating things going on at the third World Series of Poker-Europe. But, like the aging movie queen hectoring strangers to watch her grainy films of the past, I can remind you what a wonderful time I had at the first two. For instance…

Phil Ivey walks into a bar

Stop me if you’ve heard this one (though I’m sure you haven’t). One of the great and exclusive pleasures of being in London the last two years has been reporting on the Million Dollar Cash Game. The actual working conditions were very difficult, but spending the time with those players in that setting was a joy, as it would be for anyone interested in the lives and games of the world’s biggest gamblers.

During a dinner break last year we all went to a tapas bar across the street from the studio. It was a big, chaotic group and Phil Ivey, being Phil Ivey, was looking for things to bet on. Luckily, Roland de Wolfe was there as the sucker du jure. As I have previously reported, the pair flew to London from Germany and Roland lost enough in Chinese Poker on the flight to pay for the jet. In the tapas bar, they were primarily occupied playing Roshambo for up to $50,000 per series.

The waiter had some difficulty getting our order. There were a lot of us, we were spread around the restaurant, it was unclear how much time we had, nobody seemed to know who was in charge or who was paying, and nearly everyone in the group was preoccupied with talking, gambling, or talking about gambling.

When the waiter finally got to Ivey, it was after he had taken most of the other orders. Phil wouldn’t even look at a menu. “What do you have, what kind of food do you have here?”

The waiter tried without success to get Phil to look at the menu but Phil stopped him. “Look, I don’t care what I eat. I only eat because I have to. You pick something out for me. Just make sure it’s not spicy.” He then locked his stare on the waiter in a way that made it clear, without any words or acknowledgement, that the waiter understood.

Patrik Antonius walks into a bar

The year before, after the conclusion of the Million Dollar Cash Game, our large group went to dinner. The big event in the coverage that day was Phil Ivey winning $807,000 pot from Patrik Antonius. But for me, the activities that evening were much more interesting.

It was Wednesday night in London, near midnight. Our group of sixteen wandered the London streets for a restaurant, trailing Uncle Tilty who was using his iPhone to get restaurant information and reviews as we approached the darkened buildings. Miraculously, we found a place that was open and, even though it was mobbed, would seat our large group. The first floor was a loud, overcrowded dance bar where for some reason, most of the patrons looked like they were in their forties. The restaurant was on the second floor but the place was so noisy and crowded that people were dancing among the tables. I wrote about this scene two years ago in a post titled “Patrik Antonius is too Cool for this Planet”:

Not only did he lose an $800,000 pot to Phil Ivey and $600,000 in props, but now he was getting hit on by women old enough to be his mom. When the dance party spread to the second floor where we were trying to eat, a few woman were strafing our table looking for dance partners.

One of them tapped Antonius on the back. When he turned around, her jaw dropped. Seeing someone like me at one end of the table, she sure wasn’t expecting to see someone like Patrik at the other end. But he looked at her and turned away. It was a look that wasn’t quite contempt and wasn’t quite disgust. But it wasn’t anything positive and the hoofer moved on in search of another victim.

Keep checking and I’ll pass along more stories from the cradle of the World Series of Poker-Europe.

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