Coffeehouse Poker Amsterdam, Netherlands

Beautiful Amsterdam

Amsterdam's infamous red-light district was bustling. It was Saturday morning, 4 a.m. This is what we came for. My friends and I had booked an impromptu trip to Holland to celebrate a birthday, and we were living it up. We had slept until 5 p.m. so we could stay up and party all night, and our goal was near completion. We'd seen it all, done it all, got the T-shirt. Now, it was time to relax at one of the city's famous coffeehouses and figure out what to do next.



We walked back to Warmestraat, just one block outside of the red-light district. This is where our hostel was. Since we had booked the trip so late, availability in credible places was limited. Luckily, we managed to find one place that had reputable security. It was also dirt cheap, which didn't hurt. However, we immediately realized why. It was situated across from a bondage bar and between a head shop and a strip club and we were slightly uncomfortable walking in. And we felt even more uncomfortable when we saw our room. Two bunk beds, one mattress on the floor. Holes in the wall, open shower, barred windows. But we knew that at the end of the night we probably wouldn't care at all. As long as our belongings didn't get stolen. Eventually, we entered one of Warmestraat's all-night coffeehouses, sat down at a table, grabbed a drink, and ordered some food. The night was winding down and we all felt lucky to have the opportunity and the means to travel and enjoy ourselves. It was the perfect night, and it was about to have the perfect ending – for me, anyway.



When we had walked in, I had seen a table with seven men sitting around it. They were smoking, laughing, and speaking in a language I couldn't even begin to comprehend. I just assumed it was Dutch. They were also playing cards, but I couldn't tell what game. As I was sitting and talking to a friend of mine, we noticed a man throw cards on the table, quickly cash out his chips from the coffer beside him, and walk out of the place in a huff. As we were sitting there wondering what had happened, one of the guys yelled in English, "Hey! Anyone for poker?" I was out of my chair and into the vacant seat at their table in a flash.



I sat down and started to reach for my wallet, but stopped when I noticed that I was met with a cold stare from the man across the table. "What's the problem?" I said. My question was returned with, "How much money do you have, American boy?" "Well, how much are we playing for tonight?" Turns out that I had to buy in with at least €50, which was around $75. Not a large amount of money for a pot-limit hold'em cash game, and there was at least €800 on the table. They had been playing for awhile. I decided to whip out €100 and see what happened.



The first four hands I was dealt were all 7-2 offsuit. I kid you not. Four times in a row. This couldn't bode well for me. Was it a warning from the poker gods? Get up, take whatever money I have and leave? I decided to play the next hand no matter what, because my cards literally couldn't be any worse. If I won, I would stay. If I lost, I was going back to the hostel with my friends. I'm not superstitious, but sometimes the cards just don't fall your way. In either case, the cards were dealt, and I found myself pinching 9 7 between my fingers. Could be worse, I guess. I dropped a chip on my cards, and came out with a raise from under the gun. It was folded around to the cutoff, who reraised me, but he raised only the minimum. The big blind called, and I called as well.



If the odds of getting 7-2 offsuit four times in a row were tiny, then the odds of the flop that came were right there with them. A gorgeous 10 8 6. I just flopped a straight flush. I raised with 9 7, got reraised, called, and flopped a straight flush. I was not losing this hand! You've got to love making idiot plays and getting lucky. All I could think about was how much of a donkey situation I was in that moment. It was a crazy flop, but hey – this is Amsterdam, crazier things have happened here!



The challenge now was getting the most value out of my hand. I was hoping that the guy who minimum-raised before the flop was holding A-A with one diamond, and was just making an equally bad play. The big blind was the first to act, and he came out betting. I called, and the original raiser called as well. I smiled a little bit on the inside, 90 percent sure that he had a high diamond and was going to chase the flush. Time to make him pay. I could only hope that the guy in the big blind was holding a high diamond also, maybe Q 10. The turn brought the 3, a total brick. The big blind bet again, but this time it was a pot-sized bet. I had to raise. I knew the guy behind me was going to call, and I couldn't see the big blind folding to a raise after he bet both the flop and the turn. The original raiser called, seemingly disappointed. The big blind called as well, and his face turned to a scowl. Talk about tells. They both felt they needed to improve their hands.



I now had about €70 in the pot, with €30 left in front of me. That was all going in on the river, and I was pretty sure both of them would be calling anyway. The river brought the J, giving me a bigger straight flush, 7 to jack. The big blind checked, I pushed the rest of my chips into the middle, and the original raiser excitedly reraised. The big blind called, showing Q Q. The original raiser showed A K. And then I showed my hand. The guy with the A started to scoop in the €300 pot, smiling at his fortune, when I pointed out that I had a straight flush and he had lost. He won a tiny side pot against the big blind holding Q-Q, but the rest of it was mine. I had just paid for my entire vacation in 15 minutes.



The table was dead quiet for about 30 seconds, and then the guy with Q-Q burst out laughing. It was contagious. Everybody at the table started laughing at the man who had the A, the look of excitement on his face, and then the look of horror as he realized that he had lost with an ace-high flush. They were all friends, and they started to needle him in English so that I could understand. The man got up, stretched, smiled weakly, and then started laughing himself. Talk about a tough break! He took it like a pro, sat down, and we all continued playing. I bought him a beer, shrugged my shoulders, and smiled. The hand was over, the game continued.



I folded for a while, lost a few small pots, and eventually found myself staring down at 9 7 once more. I laughed out loud and folded. He laughed too, likely knowing the cards I was throwing into the muck. It was getting late, and I was ready to go back to the hostel and fall asleep. I announced that I was going to play only one more orbit around the table, and everyone consented that it was going to be the last orbit of the night for everyone else as well. It was 6 a.m.; they had been playing since midnight. I was in the big blind, and I curled up K K in my fingertips. I did not want to see an ace on this flop.



Action was folded around to the cutoff, who made a standard raise. I reraised the size of the pot, and he called so quickly his chips hit the felt before mine. The flop was 4-4-10, and I wasn't terribly worried about him having a 4 in this position. If he was holding an ace, I didn't want to give him a free card. I bet out three-fourths of the pot, and much to my surprise, he reraised me. I judged that I was still ahead, figuring he didn't have a set of tens, a 4, or A-A. He definitely would have reraised me preflop with A-A, but he would just flat call my reraise with almost anything else. Unless he had flopped quad fours or a set of tens, I was sure I was ahead in this hand. I safely put him on A-10, or a lower pair than K-K. I decided to come over the top of his reraise and set him all in. He went into the tank for a good two minutes, which is a pretty long time in a poker game when nothing else is going on. Eventually, he folded his cards faceup. He had made a big laydown with Q-Q. It was a friendly game, so I decided to show him my hand. He let out a sigh of relief and said, "I put you on aces."



I wasn't happy when I saw his cards, because it showed me that I definitely misplayed this hand. After he reraised the flop, I put him on a certain spectrum of hands, all of which I was confident I could beat. Generally, my reads are dead on; I should have trusted my gut and trapped him for more chips. After all, if he had a lower pair than K-K, he had very few outs. By just calling his reraise on the flop, I might have been able to get him to commit more chips on the turn and the river, maximizing my profit. In either case, the hand was over, and I was the winner of another €100 pot, bringing my profit for this two-hour late night poker session to a glorious €300. We ended the game at the end of the orbit, shook hands, and wished each other luck in the future.



The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon when I walked out of the coffeehouse at 6:30 a.m. I ambled down the street back to my dirty hostel and scared the hell out of my friends when I opened the door to the room. I climbed onto the bottom mattress on the half-broken bunk bed; the sun barely peeking through the small barred window near the ceiling. I was asleep within five minutes, happily dreaming about the great night that passed, the great night yet to come, and that I'd just paid for my plane tickets, the hostel, and everything else I was about to spend money on this weekend. If this was typical college life, someone sign me up for the six-year program!