In the Catskills: A Century of Jewish Experience in "The Mountains" (34 page)

The girls weren’t the only ones to have fun. The guys came in for their share, too. One bellhop’s claim to fame occurred at the height of a taxi strike in Manhattan. Eddie Fisher had flown in from California for an appearance at the Waldorf and someone at the “G” had arranged for the bellhop to meet him with a car at the airport and drive him there. On the way in, Eddie told him that there were a few girls in an apartment on the upper East Side he had heard about and, after he had showered and changed, wanted the bellhop to pick him up and bring them over to his suite. “But try them out first,” he ordered. “If they’re good enough for you, they’re good enough for me. If not, forget them.”

It was this same bellhop, Meyer, who checked out a rather eccentric elderly man who, instead of a tip, presented him with a check made out for $500 because “I like you. You’re a nice bellhop.” When Meyer got back to the front office, the Superintendent of Service told him he had been had. The gentleman had pulled the same stunt with his dining room waiter, who didn’t even bother to check it out. He just ripped the check up. Meyer wasn’t so sure. He went right down to the bank, and much to his and everyone else’s amazement, he was notified a week later that the check was legitimate. It had cleared with no complications whatsoever.

The fun and games notwithstanding, however, the staff took their work seriously. And even though it didn’t always look so, it was hard work. I know how exhausted my mother and many others were at the end of each and every day. One of the captains in the dining room summed it up beautifully when asked what he considered to be the hardest part of his job. “Keeping the smile on my face,” he answered. “Do you think it’s easy to always walk around with a smile?”

Everybody on the staff in their own way accepted the unwritten maxim that “If a guest isn’t having a good time, no matter what the reason, it is the fault of the hotel. Something must be done to rectify it.” Which prompted one executive to put a sign in his office which read: “Everyone entering this place makes us happy. Some when they arrive. Some when they leave.”

One thing that separated the Grossinger staff from staff at many of the other hotels was the “personal touch.” As much as possible, they really were treated as if they were members of the family. Jennie tried to take their problems to heart whenever she could. Abe Friedman always had an available shoulder to cry on. And my mother was always seeing to it that the girls on the staff, and the men as well, didn’t spend too much time alone against their will.

For the most part, staff were given complete use of the facilities, both athletic and social, as well as discounts at the concessions. There was one period when some guests complained that the female staffers were monopolizing the eligible males in the Terrace Room so they were asked to refrain from coming in. But someone soon wisely pointed out to Jennie that today’s staffer was tomorrow’s paying guest, so the employees were just told to use their judgment—translated as “Give the guest an even break!”

The hotel threw marvelous staff parties at least twice a year. The big one was held in August, immediately following the long looked forward to Staff Show. This was the staff’s answer to the Guest Show held each July, but the Staff Show was a thoroughly professional job. Upcoming Broadway and television writers were hired to put the skits together. Mel Brooks moonlighted one August when he was working for Sid Caesar and “Your Show of Shows.” Jerry Ross and Dick Adler, Eddie Fisher’s boyhood friends from Philadelphia, took the job the summer before
Pajama Game
and then
Damn Yankees
became Broadway hits. Carl Reiner and Howard Morris also made frequent contributions. Rehearsals began five weeks before the big night, with all of us—kids, waitresses, bellhops, busboys, lifeguards, office help, switchboard operators, musicians—giving up off-duty time to put together what, after the Labor Day Extravaganza, even the guests acknowledged was the highlight of the summer entertainment season.

After the show an all-night bash, courtesy of the family, would begin for staff only, with endless champagne, open bar, hors d’oeuvres, dancing, and every kind of merriment one could think of. Then at the end of the season there’d be another get-together, this informal, down at the lake, with square dancing, beer, hot dogs, rowboats, and whatever fun and frivolity one could come up with. An outsider looking in would swear that the place was more like a summer camp run for the staff than a structured business operation run for guests.

Rare was the employee who seriously complained about the food—or lodging. Unlike the policy at many other hotels, the Grossinger staff always ate the same food as the guests, the only difference being that the staff didn’t have the variety of choices. But the food was always fresh—and first rate.

The accommodations, though nothing to write home about, were acceptable, especially since one rarely did anything more in them than sleep. Many cottages, the Farm House, Hibscher’s, the Playhouse upstairs and downstairs were turned over to staff completely. Some staff lived in less expensive rooms in buildings that served guests, but not many. And to make summer jobs more attractive to college students, in the late fifties the hotel purchased a smaller place, the Lakeside Inn, a mile from the Main House, with swimming pool and athletic field especially for them.

Not many staff lived in private rooms, and those who did were “up” in the hierarchy. Competition for these rooms was intense not only because they represented status but because, since roommates were assigned indiscriminately, problems often arose. It was difficult, for example, when a dance teacher who came home at 3:00
A.M
. was matched up with a file clerk who had to be up at 7:00. Sometimes the situation was impossible. When Jack Shor, now the public relations director for Clairol, Inc., first came to Grossinger’s to put together the
Tattler
, he was assigned a room with a security guard who was habitually inebriated. This guard’s favorite pastime, next to boozing, was using a dresser drawer as his toilet, thus saving himself a trip to bathroom at the end of the hall. Sometimes people quit as a result of roommate problems, but usually, somehow or other, things managed to work out, and most would openly acknowledge that they certainly got as much out of their jobs as they put in—if not more.

Five and Three House

Sidney Offit

A
udrey Grier didn’t wear stockings. It was June but her legs were already tanned. She wore shoes with open toes that displayed her brightly polished red toenails. Every part of her that could be rouged or polished was done up carefully. She had full, thick lips and a heavy-set body that came off as a good figure because her hips and bust were larger than her waist. It was her nose that spoiled her. Broad and flat, it spread out across her face like a young fighter’s.

She tried to talk like a drill sergeant but her voice was thin and feminine. “I want my stations spotlessly clean,” she said. “Every meal I’ll inspect. There’s no excuse for dirty goblets, and little things like the sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers, I expect them to be perfect. Every waiter and busboy that works my room has to be a walking advertisement for the hotel. Polished shoes, clean shirts, and I don’t want anybody coming in here needing a shave or a haircut. And another thing, I want the mats by each server picked up and cleaned every day.” She liked that point and she dwelt on it for a few minutes. When she was finished she consulted a small pad in her hand.

“Watch yourself in the kitchen,” she said. “No busboys pick up anything from the stove, unless it’s a special, and then they have to have a note from me.”

She wasn’t all business. She could be sisterly. “I know the going gets tough when we’re busy. I’ve worked the mountains for ten years. The guests will get under your skin, but don’t panic. When you run into a tough one—well, they require a special technique.” She bobbed the bun at the back of her head. “That’s what I’m here for. I want to help you.”

She could be tough, too. “I’m not trying to win any popularity contests. There are twenty boys waiting around the agencies, dying for a job. And I’m not afraid to fire. The boys who’ve worked with me before know I don’t take less than a hundred per cent.”

They were sitting in the dining room, a tremendous hall with a huge plate glass window along one side. The tables and chairs were painted coral, and there was a paper that looked like a jungle scene against the far wall. The floor was highly polished, and a thin wall trimmed with redwood and artificial flowers concealed an air-conditioning unit.

For the meeting, the nine waiters and eight busboys were gathered around a small table that acted as a desk for the hostess. It was next to the concealed unit and near the dining-room entrance. Most of the boys were sitting with the chairs swung around backwards. Audrey was the only one standing.

“Audrey”—it was Stan, the Mong—“tell ’em about chasing tips.”

“I’m coming to that.”

“Nobody chases tips, right? You take what you get and shut up. The good make up for the stiffs, right?”

“Thanks, Stan, that’s right. The first boy I catch or hear about chasing the guests for tips—out. No questions—just out.”

“Tell ’em about busboys’ side jobs,” Stan said.

“Wait a minute, Stan. I’m coming to that later.”

Stan said, “She puts the list up in the kitchen and that’s it. No bitching. You got complaints, see me.”

“Two months on the breadbox for Joe,” one of the boys said.

Joe, the red-haired boy who had announced the meeting, blushed and said, “Not this year. I’m a waiter, I hope.”

“Also, you’ll be wearing special shirts this year. No more white jackets. I think they’re very attractive and should give the dining room color. Naturally, you’ll be expected to buy these shirts. Three for each boy. Mrs. Mandheimer is selling them at cost—two dollars apiece. And that’s cheap, believe me.”

“Right away money,” Mike Heimer said.

“Knock it off,” Stan said. “Tell ’em about the stations, Audrey.”

“I’m coming to that.” She inspected her notes, skipping over the reminders to talk about punctuality, place settings, and how to serve. “Of course, everybody wants a window station. Unfortunately, there just aren’t enough to go around. The window stations will go to the most deserving. I like to reward the boys who do a good job, but I go hard on the ones who don’t. We’ll start off by giving priority to the boys who have worked here the longest. I think that’s the fairest way.” She was looking at the notes when she said, “Stan Macht will work station one, and I’m putting Mike Heimer on station two …”

“Oh, no,” Joe said. “You promised me a window station last year, Audrey, remember? I was a waiter before I came here and I only agreed to bus for a season with the understanding—”

“Understanding—hell,” Stan Macht said. “You go where you’re put and shut up.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Joe said.

“But I was talking to you,” Macht said. “Don’t you go telling the Mong what to do. Not you or anybody else around here is giving this boy any crap.”

“Hail the great Mong,” Mike Heimer said.

“Long live the Mong’s schlong,” another waiter said.

“Quiet—all of you.” The girl’s face flushed. “I don’t want any vulgarity—let’s get that straight right from the start. If you can’t act like gentlemen, get out.”