What seems like eons ago when I was a tyke, my maternal grandmother schlepped (Yiddish to drag or pull) me from our home in Brooklyn to the Catskills.
What seems like eons ago when I was a tyke, my maternal grandmother schlepped (Yiddish to drag or pull) me from our home in Brooklyn to the Catskills in New York state, where we took a room in a farmhouse and my grandmother cooked our meals there. Usually, there were quite a few other women also cooking over a number of gas burners in the kitchen. I learned that the place we stayed at was called a Kochalayn (Yiddish for “cooking alone”). I remember the refrigerator containing bags and boxes with people’s names written on them in Yiddish. Some people would join together to eat, but each had his or her own different Kosher food. Voila, such was the money-making use of a farmhouse on a usually non-producing farm.
Historically, the Borscht Belt, also known as the Jewish Alps, was settled primarily by New York city Jews in Ulster, Orange and Sullivan counties in New York state from the 1920s to the 70s. This was the place to go to escape New York city’s summer heat and congestion. The word borscht is a Yiddish word for a beet-based soup brought here by Ashkenazi Jews. For those disinclined to stay at a Kochalayn, there were options of hotels, bungalow colonies and summer camps.
Most people who traveled year after year to the Catskills had their favorite large, medium or small hotel to stay at. The two biggies were Grossinger’s and the Concord. The meal experience usually took on as much importance as the entertainment provided in the hotels. Stuffing oneself with food was a big part of the experience. Grossinger’s was kosher and the Concord served kosher-style food. If you desired, you could have two or three main dishes and desserts. Some people argued that so much was eaten because they starved in Europe, and here the Depression kept them as hungry. For anyone who was a fresser (Yiddish for big eater) rather than a nosher (Yiddish for snacker or small portion eater), Grossinger’s provided a U-shaped path in front of their main entrance for an after-eating or after show shaptsir (Yiddish for walk). Perhaps a short walk could prevent a heart attack from either eating too much or laughing too hard from a comedian’s joke.
Additionally, most of the hotels had male and female tummlers — a Yiddish word describing a man or woman who was a prankster, live wire, social director or group leader — who kept things going by getting people up and into activities. From my recollection, Simon Says, a group activity that depended on listening ability, was the most popular activity.
Furthermore, the bragging about one hotel or another often centered on the evening’s entertainment and star. Some of the stars who started their careers in the Borscht Belt hotels were Danny Kaye, Sid Caesar, Buddy Hackett (who lived around the corner from me on 15th avenue in Boro Park, Brooklyn, and answered to Boach), Shelly Winters, Fanny Brice, Mel Brooks, Phyllis Diller and so many more.
As I recall, the movie Dirty Dancing provided audiences with a somewhat realistic idea of a bungalow colony with the dancing, plays and other amenities. I think back to watching the movie where a woman was looking for a man she thought was passionate about her. She ventured to the bungalow row where the help lived, and there was a white towel on his door knob. As she reached for the door knob to open the door, I uncontrollably jumped up and yelled, “No!” Everyone around looked at me startlingly and thought I was nuts. In the lore of “making out” at that time and in that place, a towel on the door denoted a couple was in flagrante delicto and you should not enter the room, but leave.
Depending on the colony, you cooked in your bungalow, or, in some cases, the main house kitchen that sometimes acted as a Kochalayn. One of the undertakings of someone staying at a bungalow colony was to try to sneak into the show at one of the bigger hotels. Up to World War II, an important reason for parents to visit the Borscht Belt was to find a mate for a daughter or son. At that time, there was still an emphasis on the mate being of the same religion. Post World War II, however, there was more emphasis for their sons and daughters to find their own mate. Interestingly, for many of their children, a mate’s religion became less important. The popularity of the Catskills as a place to summer as well as a place to send one’s child or children to a resident or sleep-away camp began to lose its charm and importance when post-World War II city people began moving to the suburbs. Obviously, you could save the cost too.
In sum, with our need for affordable Vineyard housing as noted recently by the Edgartown planning board’s long public hearing, maybe some creative thinkers and builders could update the Borscht Belt summer Kochalayn concept to help solve some of the Vineyard’s need for affordable housing. To really consider the Kochalayn concept as a viable solution, one would have to be knowledgeable about the local zoning regulations, the respective town boards involved in such an endeavor, and, perhaps, related road association bylaws.
Nevertheless, at least by reading this reminiscence, you learned about the past of an earlier group of immigrants who came to America, summered in the Catskills of New York state and by prospering, broke with the need for the experience and eventually, for the most part, stopped going. Just as World War II veterans are passing away, so too are those primarily Jewish New Yorkers, along with the waiters, busboys, dishwashers, comedians and athletes who entertained them, and the tummlers who kept everyone moving as they participated in and lived that Borscht Belt experience.
Herbert Foster is a trustee of the Edgartown Free Public Library, tri-author of Martha’s Vineyard in World War II and completing the manuscript for Ghetto to Ghetto: Yiddish and Jive in Everyday Life.
Comments
Dual Citizenship
Arthur B. Rubinstein Los Angeles, CADual Citizenship
As I read Herb Foster’s wonderfully detailed piece, I was struck by the realization that I have had a dual citizenship my entire life. As an adult, over the past thirty or so years, I have been an occasional renter on Dogfish Bar; my favorite place in the universe. However, as a “tyke” from the Bronx, from the age of four thru thirteen, my family took refuge from the city heat by renting rooms at various ‘Kochalayns’ in the Borscht Belt. My most everlasting of memories is from a late afternoon in August, 1945. My older brother and I were scrapping around on a patch of almost-grass, which we convincingly referred to as a baseball field. Suddenly as the sound of airplanes began to filter through. We looked up and saw what must have been hundreds of planes, in perfect V-formation, thunderously passing right over us. In a moment, the mothers—some thirty of them—came running out dancing, jumping, and screaming: “IT’S OVER. THE WAR IS OVER”.
The Kochalayn was about sweet, warm aromas and constant Yiddish chatter. It was also about empathy.
Not every Kochalayn was the same. We would drive up to the Catskills, in early March, in our 1940 Plymouth, my father maintaining a constant 35 mph so as to avoid skidding on the Route 17 icy spots. It was grey, chilly and treacherous. The belief was that if we drove up so early in the year, we’d have a wider choice of bungalow colonies (or Kochalayns) to choose from. The target was to be near a hotel that had entertainment. In our case, however, the choices were even narrower because my grandfather, Naftule Brandwein, who was a renowned Klezmer clarinetist, would schlep his six-piece band to the Catskills for an annual summer residency. And of course, we had to be close to where “Papa” was playing. I can still recall our walking in the crisp, clear night to a hotel, with the chirp of crickets gradually harmonizing with the distant, joyous sounds Klezmer music
.
I remember one Kochalayn in particular: Weiner’s. The Weiner’s also owned a gas station a half-mile south of their bungalow colony. Every Friday afternoon, while the mamas were busy with blueberry pies and briskets, the Weiner’s would pay each of us kids a quarter to place thumbtacks on the road, just south of the gas station. Thus, the weary, sweaty fathers would face the obstacle of a flat tire, just yards before reaching their weekend destination. But I also remember the place because one of the Weiner family relatives, Hank Greenberg, would occasionally visit and play softball with us. (No, he wasn’t a new York Yankee, but he was, after all, Jewish.)
In later years, as a budding professional musician, I would be hired for two weekends every summer to play at a triumvirate of hotels: Grossingers, The Concord and Brown’s. Twice each summer, these hotels would put a one-night hold on the comics and present “Symphony Night”. A Shortline Bus would be hired to transport flutists, oboists, violinists and, in my case, French horn players to each hotel. It was never about the music. It was about the food. The modest fees we were paid were augmented by being given free reign for all meals…every delicacy imaginable (except lobster).
I now live in Los Angeles, occasionally spending a few weeks every other year trying to catch Bluefish at Dogfish Bar. But the people, the laughter, the food—the Kochalayn—will always be an essential part of my soul, and I will always maintain a distant, haunting dual citizenship.
Dear Arthur,
Herb Foster Martha'sVineyardDear Arthur,
Thanks for your incisive and heartfelt remarks. I’m certain your reminiscence conveyed in the comment section brought back many happy moments to others. You write exquisitely and passionately, and should consider writing more about your experiences and feelings in that period in time. As I read your comments and reread my article, I thought of two important pieces I left out.
First, in addition to Simon Says, the Tummler usually organized the playing of “Musical Chairs.” In this game, chairs are lined up next to one another, participants march around the chairs to the accompaniment of music, and the Tummler removes a chair or two. The music is stopped suddenly and everyone tries to find a chair to sit on. Anyone left standing is out of the game. The game continues until there is but one chair left and two people circling it.
Second, of course, was the Red Apple Rest. Going to and from the Borscht Belt could not be discussed without remembering the Red Apple Rest. The Red Apple Rest was a restaurant open 24/7 for 365 days a year. It was located in Southfield, New York—near Tuxedo Park—where you could stop to relax, rest, or get something to nosh or fress on, and obviously, go to the rest room. Frequently you came across someone you knew. I recall someone coming up to me and saying, “You must be Jack Foster’s brother,” which I was. I guess my late brother Jack and I looked alike.
The following Borscht Belt story was told to me by my brother-in-law George and involved two friends (who were business partners) and one wife.
Usually the two partners traveled back and forth together from the Borscht Belt to “the City.” However, on one particular trip, one of their wives hitched a ride with them. As was their routine, the partners stopped at the Red Apple Rest for breakfast and then drove as fast as possible, while discussing yesterday’s soft ball game, down routes 17 to 4 to the George Washington Bridge, and then the West Side Highway (now officially the Joe DiMaggio Highway) to their parking space in Manhattan.
Upon reaching Manhattan, they parked in their usual spot and walked to their business loft. Suddenly, around 10:30 AM, one of the partners, much to his chagrin gave out an “Oy vey” (A Yiddish expression meaning something akin to “Boy am I in trouble.”): he realized that he left his wife at the Rest Apple Rest.
He ran to his car and made it back to the Red Apple Rest around noon. Since cell phones did not exist, he was, of course, in deep trouble. History has not recorded how his wife occupied herself until he showed up, what later transpired between them, and what it cost him to make up for his over sight is known only to God.
Please call me when you visit here next summer. We could nosh, fish, and schmooze.
Herb
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