Goodbye HKPH
I most recently ended up at the HKPH the same way as the first—and middle times—I ended up there: very drunk and confused.
Last Tuesday the Hong Kong Poker House (“HKPH”) closed down. Gone is the weird combination of expensive sushi and poker (WTF?), gone is the HK$250 entrance fee (with a bottle of Perrier), and gone are the massively incompetent dealers with the same smile Ben Stiller had as Simple Jack in “Tropic Thunder.”
I most recently ended up at the HKPH the same way as the first—and middle times—I ended up there: very drunk and confused. I was then there thanks to a friend with a gambling addiction but since we’re under 30 we can say “he just loves to have a good time!” and everyone laughs and tries to give him unfair odds at the sporting match we’re watching. It was about 4:15am and the place was hopping. By hopping I mean there were a bunch of bankers, a few drunk white guys, an ugly girl who became hot by default, and the other 97 percent of the club, who were nerdy skinny-armed dudes paler than albino polar bears. There was this balding Chinese dude who looked exactly like my sixth grade teacher Mr. Vornberg, and was later destined to become my enemy.
I distinctly remember trying to convince gambling-addict friend #1 (I actually have 3) to go back to Volar but he was too busy pulling a crazy stack of hundreds from various pockets all over his body. We got a member’s table by saying my name was something like “John Cheung,” following the old Hong Kong tradition that if you look vaguely Asian just say your name is some combination of John / Patrick / Alan and Cheung / Chan / Ma and you’ll be on the guest list for every event. I converted my small stack of hundreds into a few chips while the skinny pale dudes looked at me like a fat man eyes bacon. Clearly I was the drunk expat du jour.
Instead, something miraculous happened. I got really good cards. Like pocket aces twice. And a king and queen. I started winning and I was winning big. Everyone thought I was bluffing since I was too drunk to pick up my chips and just kind of knocked them towards the center but that’s OK when you’re crazily lucky. I had grown my stack to the second largest on the table with only Mr. Vornberg in my way. I told myself, “Lkarlseisael!” which in sober language meant, get the biggest stack and go to bed. It was on.
Mr. V and I went a few times head-to-head only to see us draw, both fold, and one time when I was sure my cards would beat his, I really had to go pee, so I folded. We went at it again and finally I had my angel hand: pair of queens. He goes all in. I do too. He has a jack and ace (suck it). The dealer flips over the cards—a three, seven, queen. I am in a good spot. The next card comes. King. OK, not so good but only a ten can stop me now.
I look at Mr. V with a smile on my face. He has the huge smile too. I’m like, what the fuck? The next card comes: four! I’ve got it—slayed the dragon, fuck you nerds. I high-five my friend who just shakes his head. “What’s wrong?” I ask him. Turned out Mr. V actually had a flush. Like, when they flipped over the first 3 cards. I had lost like 5 minutes previously and was just too drunk to realize. I shuffled out, sadly, and went to Flying Pan for consolatory pancakes.