Zandy Mangoldįor some, underground poker clubs are as much a part of the city’s fabric as Greek diners and corner bars. Cards are in the air and I feel right at home. I hope to get a decent hand before he goes bust. I size up the other players and am grateful that the guy to my right bets like a maniac.
Affable as he is, poker in these places is never really all that friendly. I buy-in for $200, receive two stacks of $5 chips and a British-accented dealer welcomes me to the game. Sounds of small talk and the clattering of chips resonate around the room. Two poker tables are filled with male gamblers.
Satisfied that there are no weapons on my person, he gets me buzzed into a room with a wall of windows covered in sheets.įlat-screen TVs play baseball and soccer. Standing in a closet-sized room with locked doors on either side, I raise my arms and submit to a pat-down by a muscled-up guy who calls himself Big Reggie. on a Tuesday and I am about to do something illegal.
