“This book is such a treat. Banquets and Bootleg Bounty is a fantastically fun romp through the height of the Catskills with spot-on historical accuracy. Author Lily Barrish Levner gives readers a bird’s eye view of the dining rooms at the Concord, with a dash of romance and a side of danger. Grab a bowl of matzo ball soup and enjoy the ride!” ~ Meredith Schorr, author of As Seen on TV
“It’s really great that the golden era of the Catskills is remembered. This book brought back a flood of memories.” ~Steve White, Concord tennis pro/Arthur Winarick’s great-nephew
“Lily Barrish Levner captures the Catskill Mountains of 1944 with love and longing for a by-gone era in this triumphant debut. Banquets and Bootleg Bounty is more delicious than Shabbat dinner at the Concord Hotel.”~ Marilyn Rothstein, author of Crazy to Leave You
“If you want a taste of delicious food the Concord served to its guests while experiencing the thrill of a dining room mystery in the Catskills, it’s time to read Lily Barrish Levner’s debut novel, Banquets & Bootleg Bounty.”~ Patti Posner, author of My View From the Mountains
“Mystery meets History in this engaging debut!” ~ New York Times bestselling author Wendy Corsi Staub
Excerpt - Week 1, Friday
Dotty
“That sure is a fancy ride,” a passerby called and whistled while a black Buick Roadmaster rolled to a stop next to the curb on E. 167th Street.
Dotty fanned herself with one hand and clutched the handle of her large, olive-green bag with the other. She was winded and shvitzing after she schlepped from her family’s third-floor walk-up apartment during a Bronx heat wave.
Cars zipped past, and the elevated Jerome Avenue subway rumbled along the tracks. She said,
“Good riddance” to the concrete and brick buildings she was leaving behind. It was thrilling to escape the city heat for a couple of months.
Just last night, she had been surprised when Papa told her there was a seat available in the taxicab. She planned to take the bus. She waved goodbye to the neighborhood, flashing a sunny smile over her good fortune. A hack was such a decadent way to travel to the mountains.
“The middle seat is open,” said the driver, rearranging luggage in the trunk.
A gentleman stood outside the car so she could crawl into the center of the three-person bench seat. She rested her handbag on her lap and settled in for an adventure. “I can’t believe I’m going to the Concord!”
“Oh, the Concord,” the silver-haired woman sitting to her left said in a dreamy voice. “I’m going to the Heiden Hotel in South Fallsburg.”
“I’m visiting my aunt and uncle at the Hotel Evans in Loch Sheldrake for the weekend,” volunteered the gentleman, who was back inside the car, sitting to her right.
“We’ve got one more stop to fetch a wife staying at Sunny Oaks bungalow colony in South Fallsburg for the next two months. Her husband won’t be in the mountains until next week,” the driver said, speeding off.
“Are we in a vaudeville act?” Dotty asked a few minutes later. She watched the middle-aged woman bringing out suitcases, food, a lamp, an ironing board, dishes, pans, and sheets. It seemed she had packed her entire city apartment.
The driver huffed and puffed as he tied a rope around the roof rack. The lamp wobbled, a casserole dish crashed, and a flock of pigeons hijacked a loaf of bread.
Once everything was loaded and everyone was seated, the driver was chatty. “It’s the first year the Concord has been open year-round.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about it.” Dotty shimmied her shoulders, gazing at the scenery roll by. “I’m one of the first waitresses under the new maître d’, Irving Cohen.”
The driver removed one hand from the wheel to snap his fingers. “You are going to a happening place. How’d you end up at Arthur Winarick’s masterpiece?”
“My papa said you can make real nice money in the mountains. So, I went to an employment agency down in the Bowery. Since most boys are off at war, they are desperate to hire workers.”
“I’ve stayed at Grossinger’s. Never at the Concord,” said the gentleman heading to Hotel Evans.
“The Grossingers are the reason I have such a thriving business. They attracted the vacationers to the Catskills. People love to stay under Jennie Grossinger’s roof. They don’t call it the ‘Waldorf of the Catskills’ for nothing,” said the driver.
Dozens of people had mentioned Grossinger’s to her after learning she would be waitressing in the mountains. She pictured a stately hotel sitting on sprawling grounds.
The driver snapped his fingers again. “Here’s a little mountain history for you. Grossinger’s was the most lavish resort until your new boss, Arthur Winarick, cropped up with a fortune in hand. One night he couldn’t get a room at the G because the hotel was booked. Right then and there he vowed to build a bigger and better hotel to lure the guests away. After the prior owner of the Ideal House defaulted, he lucked out and acquired it. Renamed it and rebuilt it. That’s how the Concord started. There were thirty guests in the beginning and look at it already—there are three hundred guests now.”
“It’s true. Grossinger’s has the name recognition, but the Concord has the finances,” said the woman heading to Sunny Oaks.
“Every building at the Concord was designed to meet Winarick’s vision of richness,” said the Heiden Hotel guest.
“Bet you didn’t know that Winarick bought concrete and steel structures in their entirety from the 1939 World’s Fair. He also purchased a ferryboat at 125th Street and dismantled it for steel.
He didn’t have to borrow a penny,” the driver said, veering to the left.
“How did he become so wealthy?” Dotty asked.
“Winarick was a barber during Prohibition. He’s one lucky son of a gun. On account of his profession, he had rights to alcohol, and his brother just so happened to be a chemist. They set up a basement barber shop. Sold bootleg liquor on the side and made a killing selling Jeris Hair Tonic—largely consisting of alcohol and perfume.”
“He’s a real clever man,” she said.The driver sang the jingle, “Jeris hits the jackpot for greaseless good grooming and healthier, handsomer hair.”
She had high hopes that her pockets would soon be overflowing with tips and she would be able to buy Papa some of the hair tonic for his birthday.
“It’s hot in here!” shouted the wife in the front, fanning herself with a handkerchief.
“Roll down a window!” shouted the gentleman in the back.
“The wind is blowing on me,” complained the wife.
Dotty raised her hand and caught the silver-haired woman’s pillbox hat before it flew out the window. The woman sighed in relief.
“Have you considered trying out for the Yankees with a catch like that?” asked the driver.
She smiled and leaned her head back. She remembered the one time her family had stayed at the Delano Hotel in Monticello. She loved playing the pinball machine there.
About midway through their trip, coasting on the narrow, two-lane Route 17 highway, the hack turned off and into the crowded parking lot of the Red Apple Rest. Dotty stared at the large red apple that sat on top of the roof as they waited for an overheated car’s engine to spring back to life. Once the parking space opened, she sprinted under the multicolored striped awning.
Astonished by the impressive roadside eatery, she surveyed the wide selection of hot and cold food. Papa had told her the washrooms here were the nicest public ones anywhere. He had also said Reuben Freed, the owner, showed genuine care for his patrons. The outdoor line for frankfurters and ice cream was long, so she settled on a root beer soda pop from inside. She did not have an appetite anyway. The lively waystation made her even more excited to reach her destination.
They drove through Chester and Goshen. In Middletown, the traffic became bottlenecked on the winding streets. From Middletown, they traveled back roads. At the bottom of the Wurtsboro mountain, the hack was so overloaded she feared they would not clear the hill.
AbeRiveted by all the billboards lining the country roads directing guests to the Catskill Mountain resorts, Abe kept his nose pressed to the window. As the black Buick Super wound through towns and villages that made up Sullivan County, he saw bungalow renters unloading their jam-packed vehicles and airing out their summer bungalows. They were his first glimpse of summer vacationers in the mountains.
A rectangular-shaped building painted a buttery shade of yellow with brown trim came into view. The Buick skidded to a halt in front of it, and the driver said, “You can make a real comfortable living here. Arthur Winarick created something special.”
Abe jerked forward and his glasses slid down his face. It was a grand version of the architecture he was used to back in Brighton Beach. He counted the windows on the four-story building that could stretch the length of three Brooklyn blocks as he crawled out of the back seat. He ran his eyes over the lush landscape, inhaling fresh mountain air, already filled with respect for this Arthur Winarick fella. Exquisite gardens and dense trees lined the pristine grounds. Crystal-clear Kiamesha Lake, to the left of the main building, faced the perfectly maintained nine holes of the golf course.
Three entertainers were wedged together in the backseat, surrounded by costumes and props that would not fit into the overstuffed trunk. He retrieved his bag from under wigs, cards, and a top hat. “My pockets might not be full yet, but I’m only returning home once they are overflowing,” he vowed, waving goodbye to the fella behind the wheel who’d given him a lift to the mountains. He spent the entire ride memorizing every piece of advice he received, determined to make a success of himself with the fortuitous opportunities in front of him.
He threw his shoulders back and held his head high. He fit right in. Back in New York City, the lack of men on the streets made him ashamed that people believed he was a malingerer not returning to war. The doors to the hotel were pulling him to something special. He followed the bustling bellhops and energized guests into the lobby.
Luggage began to pile up in front of the doorway while he waited for his room assignment in the staff living quarters. An unassuming man wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and faded pants hurried over to haul the suitcases to a corner, so Abe trooped over to help. He stacked suitcases one on top of another, presuming the man must be an older lobby porter and well-liked since everyone who passed by smiled his way.
After they stacked all the suitcases, the man stuck his hand out. “Thank you. I can already tell you’re a hard worker. I’m Arthur Winarick. Welcome to my hotel.”
His heartbeat doubled its normal rhythm. He expected a sharp-dressed gonsa macher, not just an ordinary fella with thinning hair and lackluster clothing.
Already counting his luck, he received his room assignment and trekked the short distance to the staff living quarters, a separate hotel called the Colonial. It sat behind the main hotel where the guests stayed. The white-painted building reminded him of an oversized bungalow. He let out a low whistle as he pushed into the first-floor room.
A boy with wavy brown hair and a polite smile said, “I’m Leon.”
Introducing himself, he took the bed on the left since Leon had already chosen the one on the right.
“Hello, Abe. Where did you travel from?”
“Brighton Beach. And you?” He inspected the empty drawers of the dresser. He omitted that he had grown up in Philadelphia, only moving to Brooklyn once his mother had reappeared.
“I’m from Warsaw. I escaped at the start of the war.”
Speechless, he unzipped his bag. He knew Poland was thousands of miles away and Leon’s journey must have been dangerous. His childhood in foster care had been no picnic, but Leon’s life in Europe had presented greater challenges. He tossed a pair of socks into the drawer.
Leon continued. “I was working at a luncheonette in Manhattan, struggling to make a living, when I heard they needed help in the hotels. Can you believe I was completely unaware that there were hills north of the city?”
He had previously traveled to upstate New York, so he was familiar with the countryside. He pulled more socks from his bag. “As soon as I heard about the high wages and all the luxuries that came with living in the mountains, I signed up on the spot. I prefer this to being cooped up inside my stepfather’s garment factory all day. I didn’t expect such a dandy space to call home for the summer.”
“How come you aren’t enrolled in the army?”
He shifted his eyes to the single window in the middle of the room. “They discharged me.”
Leon remained quiet. His kind eyes encouraged Abe to say more.
“I was a drill sergeant in Miami until a doctor diagnosed my eyesight as too poor to continue to serve.” He returned from duty, at 19 years old, with his brunette hair a shade more golden, his skin tanned, and his muscles bulging from a year of physical activity under the Florida sun.
“There is no shame in wearing spectacles.”
He tapped the rim of his glasses. “My eyesight isn’t that terrible.”Leon reached for his checkered newsboy hat; his voice was friendly. “Ah, a Jewish doctor who didn’t want to see another Jewish boy come home in a coffin.”
He raked his hands through his hair, swallowing hard. Here he was a young man in perfect health, while both of his brothers were still serving in the U.S Army. He never wanted people to think he was less patriotic. His Ma’s words rang in his ears. “Abe-ala, this means I won’t lose all three of my boys.”
That comment had stung.
“The Concord is lucky to have you.”He snapped back to the present. “I have had the pleasure of meeting the owner already.”
Leon’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Arthur Winarick? Making a good impression right away is smart.” He pointed to his head. “I made sure to use Jeris Hair Tonic today in case I bumped into him. That’s why my hair is so glossy.”
He scratched his ear, not admitting he did not understand the reference. “How come you speak such fluent English?”
“I had a neighbor back in Poland who was a diplomat and a resistance fighter. He taught English classes.” Leon placed the newsboy cap on top of his head.
Sprawled out on his mattress, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes, Abe knew he had made the right decision. And he was glad he had someone like Leon by his side. “I feel like a king.”
“There’s tremendous potential.”
His smile spread from ear to ear. “I think I can pave my own way up here.”
A whole new chapter was beginning.
DottyDotty tried to read every single one of the hotel billboards cramming the landscape. When they approached the sign that said, “Turn Here to Concord Hotel,” she was jiggling her legs.
The Hotel Evans guest hollered, “Can you drop me off first?”
“I have specific directions. She’s number one on the list.” The driver tilted his head toward the woman en route to the Heiden.
At the first drop-off, Dotty could not take her eyes off the Tudor-style building as the driver announced, “The Concord is the next stop.”
Now she could not sit still.
Minutes later, after zooming up the mountain, the driver said, “We’ve arrived. Good luck.” He handed her olive-green bag over.
“The Bronx has no space that compares to this.” She gawked in awe at the size of the building nestled in rich grounds.
The yellow paint on the exterior reminded her of their kitchen’s wallpaper at home. Oh, she could not wait to tell Ma and Papa about this exquisite place. Her parents, Merke and Isaac, expected her to write to them all summer long. She would send a postcard soon.
She took a moment to smell the sweet floral scent from the colorful flower gardens before she schlepped her bag through the entryway. People crowded the lobby, greeting each other as long-lost friends. Some staff were new hires, like herself. Others were returning for another season in the mountains.
A helpful bellhop tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll carry your bag to the Colonial, where you’ll be staying.” He led her to another building.
She blinked hard. “I get to live here? It’s an entire hotel!”
“Staff living conditions like this certainly aren’t the norm. Nobody sleeps on a cot in a closet around here. Arthur makes sure we have the best.”
“I’m so lucky the Concord hired me.” She watched two fellas stride into the Colonial.
“It’s coed,” said the bellhop, winking.
She raised her eyebrows, never having stayed in co-ed living quarters. She stepped into her new home. The blue and white floral wallpaper caught her eye. Her papa, who worked as a wallpaper hanger, always made sure to do careful work. He would be pleased with the job done here.
Once she reached her assigned room, she straightened her skirt and blouse. A striking girl with chestnut-colored curls appeared in the doorway. “I heard you thumping down the hallway.
Welcome. I’m Eva. I’m a waitress in the main dining room. Do you play cards? How about poker?”
She plopped her bag onto the ground and sat on the empty bed to catch her breath. “I’m a waitress as well. Yes, I love playing cards.” She ran her hands through her dishwater-blonde hair, wishing it had as much volume as Eva’s.
“I’m organizing a Sunday night game, after we collect our tips, of course.” Eva touched the opal heart-shaped stone hanging on a gold chain she wore around her neck.
“I’ll be at the table,” Dotty promised. She would have to ask Ma for some hints since Ma played cards every day on the Grand Concourse back home in the Bronx.
“Very good. We’ll be working hard, but don’t worry, there’s lots of time for socializing.”
She began unpacking as Eva peppered her with questions. “Do you have experience waiting tables?”
“Oh, yes. I learned everything I know at the Lido Beach Hotel on Long Island. I spent a season there before the Navy turned it into an amphibious base and discharge center. I worked at a resort in Far Rockaway and another one out in Lakewood, New Jersey, after that.”
Eva put her hands on her hips. “How old were you when you started waitressing?”
“14,” she admitted. “I told the man I was 17 and he told me to say 18.” She chuckled at the memory. She had worn high heels and bright red lipstick, clomping down Skid Row to the employment agency in the Bowery. Today she was 18 years old and did not have to fib about her age to work at the Concord.
“You’re an old pro,” Eva said, sweeping her hand through the air.
“How long have you been waitressing?” Dotty, too, had questions.
“After I traveled over from Germany, Arthur Winarick hired me. That was Pesach (Passover) two seasons ago.”
“Are you a refugee?” She placed her hand over her heart.
“Yes. I’m very lucky to be here. My German mom and British dad raised me in Southern
Germany. I’m an English citizen. My parents wanted me out of Europe. They felt it was safest for me to come over to the States. Arthur has a soft spot in his heart for refugees. I landed at the right hotel.”
Glad about that, Dotty rested her head on the pillow, enjoying the comfort of her own bed for the first time. She stretched out her legs and closed her eyes. “I’ve shared the sleeper sofa with my sister and listened to the Jerome Avenue train my entire life.”
“You’ve spent the day traveling; a snooze before Shabbat dinner might set you right.”
She jumped back up and parted the curtains to gaze at the greenery. “I hope Irving Cohen isn’t too strict.”
Eva flung her wrist in the air. “People call him ‘King Cupid.’ How harsh do you think a man with that nickname can be?”
“What if, since it’s his first summer in charge of the dining room, he’s extra tough?” She took a deep breath.
“Bet you didn’t know he was recently married. Consider him still in the honeymoon phase. Act confident and you’ll do fine.”
“I’ve always received compliments from my bosses. I’m not worried.” She bit her bottom lip and watched Eva study her reflection in a handheld mirror.
Eva had a twinkle in her eye. “Stay away from Hershel. He’s my bashert.”
Suddenly, Dotty cared a lot more about her appearance as she slipped into her white waitressing uniform. For breakfast and lunch, the two dairy meals of the day, the required dress code was yellow dresses and white aprons. The meat dinner was served wearing white dresses and white aprons.
Eva wiggled into her uniform. “Don’t forget the trick is to stay ahead of everything and not lose control of your station. What are the three important terms to measure success?”
“‘A breeze’ means the meal ran smoothly, a ‘good meal’ needs no explanation, and a ‘bomb’ means everything went terribly.” She spritzed Chantilly perfume onto her right wrist. The fruity notes of orange blossom mixed with jasmine and other citruses filled their room.
“Very good. What’s the worst thing you can do?”
“Anger the chef. I must wait until several guests ask for things from the kitchen. I want to avoid making too many trips back there.”
“What’s the second-worst thing?”
“I can’t get hung up, or I’ll never meet all the guests’ demands, and I’ll fall behind the kitchen’s schedule.”
“I don’t have to tell you tips depend on how pleasant we are to guests and how quickly we feed them.”
Thankful for all she learned that first summer on Lido Beach, and confident in her food-serving abilities, Dotty swung the door open. The same two fellas she had seen earlier were now exiting their room a couple of doors down. They wore stark white jackets. I have a feeling this is going to be a very good summer.
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