Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  “Bonne nuit, beaux gens,” Louise purred, another last-night tradition the crowd adored. She bowed like a wilting flower. “Je vous aime.”

  When she returned to the table, Benny threw an arm around her and whispered in her ear: You were marvelous. She looked at her husband tenderly. She hadn’t married the man for his looks, but as the years wore on and their marriage weathered its early troubles—so many excited doctor’s appointments, so many bassinets put on hold never to be purchased—her husband’s face had morphed from something once only tolerable into something more dashing. She loved Benjamin Goldman of the Lower East Side more than she’d thought possible. More than she loved her father—before he’d ruined their family, anyway. More than her gang of brothers combined. Her love for Benny was tied only with her love for Aimee, and that was something biologically driven, not something she’d chosen. Because she had chosen her husband, even though many from her generation had not exercised the luxury of finding their own mates. Louise saw these ineluctable pairings happen every summer at the hotel: parents trading their children like cattle at a livestock auction. “I’ll give you one JD for nice legs; I’ll give you over six feet tall for family money.” It made her uneasy, these forced couplings. She wouldn’t coerce Aimee, just offer mild suggestion.

  “Kids, start eating,” Fanny said, and Louise watched as she took the leanest slices of brisket and piled them on her boys’ plates, leaving gelatinous blobs for the rest of them.

  “Leave some for us,” Louise quipped, and Benny shot her one of his looks. Nothing she wasn’t used to and certainly nothing she couldn’t handle. She could play her husband like a fiddle, which wasn’t to say anything derogatory about him. He was simply an instrument she had mastered, but it was one she loved to play. Did Yo-Yo Ma tire of his cello? She should think not!

  “The meat is gross,” Brian said, stabbing at a thick piece with his fork. The boy had no manners. Louise saw his cloth napkin crumpled into a ball next to his water glass. His sandy hair, worn too long in Louise’s opinion, flopped in front of his eyes. Aimee, on the other hand, was cutting her food into small bites the way Louise had carefully instructed her (“about half the size of your thumb”), the same way her mother, Celine, had taught her.

  Amos chuckled. The man had a guttural laugh, and his whole body shook when he was amused. He was by nature more serious than her husband, but when he laughed, it had a way of elevating everyone’s spirits. Peter had the same laugh. He was a quiet, reflective boy, but when he cracked up—usually in response to his numbskull brother’s antics—Louise could actually understand why Aimee followed those boys around the hotel everywhere.

  “When you kids own this place and we’re six feet under, you can serve anything you like,” Amos said. “Chicken fingers, for all I care.” He beamed with pride. Turning over the keys to the Golden to his boys was something Louise sensed he was eagerly awaiting. She needed to make sure Aimee never got pushed out. Deliberately or inadvertently. Sometimes Louise worried that with all of the time Benny spent charming the guests and being the public face of the hotel, Amos might be cheating him right under his nose. Not that she had any proof. And when she told her husband to be careful, he balked.

  “Bigger waterslides!” Peter called out.

  “French fries at every meal!” Aimee said predictably. Her daughter did love to eat. It was another thing that would have to be watched carefully. Maybe she’d get her to do a Jane Fonda tape the following morning before they packed up. Or take a class with Julie, the sweet aerobics instructor the men loved to ogle on their way to the golf course. Aimee was awed by Julie’s rainbow assortment of legwarmers. Rumor had it she’d tied a golf caddy to the bedpost with those legwarmers in staff housing, but it wasn’t Louise’s place to spread tales.

  “A movie theater,” Brian contributed. “With only R-rated movies.”

  “But don’t forget tradition,” Benny chimed in, lifting his wineglass to his lips. A few dribbles of the kosher cabernet dotted his angular mustache. “There’s a reason the guests keep coming back here year after year when so many of our competitors are flopping.”

  Louise, Amos, and Fanny all nodded. It was something they could agree on. The Raleigh, Kutsher’s, The Round House . . . they were all suffering despite making changes to entice a younger clientele. “Cooking light” classes for the moms, skateboarding lessons for the teens, a game room with an Atari. Meanwhile, the Golden Hotel still held true to its origins: shuffleboard tournaments, a simple card room where the men played bridge until all hours of the night, a diving board for belly flop challenges, Saturday lunches of cold cuts and borscht soup. And the reservation book was full. Almost full.

  “To tradition,” Amos called out, lifting his glass. Fanny raised her Diet Coke. She was a teetotaler, rarely letting her hair down (though with those gray roots, why would she?). Even with her puritan ways, Fanny was asked to join the gals for mah-jongg and canasta while Louise was sidelined. It was probably because everyone assumed Louise was too busy with her hotel responsibilities, but the exclusion stung nonetheless.

  “To tradition,” Benny, Louise, and Fanny echoed, and even the kids joined in, lifting Shirley Temples dotted with juicy maraschino cherries. There was so much about the place their children loved: the Memorial Day opening barbeque that featured packaged Twinkies and Ding-Dongs, the Friday night trivia parties, the comedy shows they snuck into after bedtime, the Gold Rush relay race—which, as the owners’ children, they were prohibited from winning, but still, they kept records of their personal bests.

  The Weingolds and Goldmans clinked glasses, seven arms outstretched to join in the center of the table, and Louise delighted in the moment, her favorite of the whole summer. As was tradition, the families who’d stayed with them over the summer would meander over to their table to say their goodbyes and thanks as the evening wore on, and after the main course was served and a twenty-foot-long Viennese dessert table rolled out and the last wedge of apple strudel cut, the guests would congregate on the front lawn for fireworks, already pining for the next summer.

  STORIED HOTEL COURTED BY POTENTIAL BUYERS

  The Golden Hotel May Be Shutting Its Doors for Good June 2, 2019

  By Frank Loomis

  Windsor, NY—Famous for hosting entertainers in residency like comedian Sid Caesar and singer Brenda Lee, for its never-ending babka loaf on Saturdays, and its once-immaculate 1,800 acres of landscaped grounds, the Golden Hotel may be ending its reign as the preeminent Catskills destination after nearly sixty years in business. The co-owners, the Goldman and Weingold families, who built the hotel and have owned and operated it since 1960, have confirmed that they are in serious talks with a Texas-based company that wants to purchase it.

  It’s no secret that the tradition of families spending summers in the Catskills, either renting a bungalow for the entire summer or settling into a hotel room for a week or two, is on the decline. While the Golden Hotel once boasted a waitlist for its eighty bungalows and four hundred rooms—rumor had it if you could beat Benny Goldman at poker, you could get ahead in the queue—now the reservations desk has confirmed to the Windsor Word that the hotel is never above fifty percent occupancy. A refusal to modernize with the times could be to blame, as could the availability of more exciting options in the area. The effect of travel review sites, such as TripCritic, could also be among the sources of the Golden Hotel’s woes.

  The two families who control the hotel, with a fifty percent ownership stake each, wouldn’t get into specifics about the offer and the timeline for a potential sale, but it’s believed by several who spoke off the record that the potential purchaser is hoping to turn the hotel into a casino. “I just hope it doesn’t become one of those weird places where people pay to meditate and milk their own cows,” said Horace Fielding, owner of nearby Fielding’s General Store. He was likely referring to Y-1, a yoga retreat and wellness center that stands on the grounds of
the former Kutsher’s resort.

  Benny Goldman, who along with his wife, Louise, was considered the face of the Golden Hotel, died six months ago due to complications from a heart transplant. His famous pink 1968 Cadillac has been seen in the driveway of the Golden Hotel; it’s believed that his widow is currently in residence. Amos and Fanny Weingold have been spotted in town as well, so it appears the older generations of both families are on hand to discuss the offer and decide the fate of the beloved summer home of so many families.

  “We weren’t the inspiration for the movie Dirty Dancing,” Benny Goldman once told the Windsor Word. “If we were, it would have been called Dirtier Dancing.” He was referencing the common misconception that his hotel served as the inspiration for the iconic movie starring Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. It was, in fact, the competing Grossinger’s resort upon which the movie was based.

  “I hope they have dollar slots,” said Bobby Winter, owner of Winter Garage and Gas, who believes the area would be enhanced by a new casino resort. “Foxtrot’s table minimums are too damn high.” Foxtrot opened in 2018 on the premises of what was once the Sunny Mountain Bungalow Colony. (It’s believed that the phrase “Bungalow Bunny,” referring to the women who loosened their morals during the week while their husbands worked in the city, was coined there.)

  Lacey Lovett, who owns the Motel Matilda along with her wife Sharon Timbale in neighboring Liberty, NY, said she’d be excited if the Golden Hotel was taken over.

  “Long gone are the days where the little woman hightailed it to the country while her husband went to work,” Lovett said, noting that she did hope the new owners wouldn’t directly compete with the Matilda’s fleet of services. The motel is known for its craft-beer-for-women-by-women classes and tantric yoga workshops.

  As for the hotel employees, many of whom have spent their entire careers doling out Golden-crested towels at the pool and balancing gigantic trays of food on their arms, feelings about the future of the hotel are mixed.

  “I want to serve matzo ball soup until the day I die,” said Abe Futterman, one of the dining room’s captains known for his good humor and lightning speed in bringing food from the kitchen to the guests.

  But concierge Larry Levine was less emotional.

  “I don’t really care what happens to the Goldberg Resort,” he said. “I always planned to retire in 1980 anyway.” Why he misnamed the hotel or the year is unclear.

  Despite numerous requests for further comment, hotel CEO Brian Weingold, son of co-founder Amos Weingold, could not be reached.

  Whatever the future of the Golden Hotel, it will be the home of many beloved memories for thousands of families who played bridge in its oak-paneled game room, partook in the famous Sunday bagel and lox brunches, lounged in the heart-shaped hot tub, were regaled by some of the country’s top artistic talent, or simply cozied up with a good book in the well-stocked library. No word on whether other members of the second- or third-generation Goldmans and Weingolds will return to “campus” to help decide the fate of their childhood summer home.

  Chapter One

  Brian

  Brian put down his copy of the Catskills Crier and grimaced. First the Windsor Word and now the Crier were turning their attention to the hotel. When he’d replaced all the mattresses with Tempur-Pedics (1,200 beds!) and renovated the golf clubhouse, it had been crickets from the reporters. Brian had emailed photos to the editors in chief of both publications and not even gotten a response. But suddenly the local papers were sniffing around, and he had six voice messages and nine unanswered emails asking him to comment on the offer.

  He took a swig of bitter coffee from his thermos and stared blankly at the line of phones at the hotel reservation desk. There was very little about the day ahead of him that he was looking forward to. He didn’t necessarily want to feel the jolt of caffeine, but sitting behind the reservation desk would surely put him to sleep otherwise. The phone had rung about a half hour earlier and had shocked his eyes into an open position, but when he’d answered, “Good morning, the Golden Hotel,” a confused voice on the other end had responded, “Sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

  Historically, this weekend—the third week in June—would kick off the busy season. His father and his longtime business partner had built the hotel as a summer destination for those wishing to escape the hot city, boldly joining the ranks of many more seasoned establishments doing the same. But over the decades, they had expanded it to an all-year-round facility, with a modest bunny hill for skiing, an outdoor skating rink, fall foliage excursions, and spring gardening classes. Still, summer would always remain the peak time, not only because occupancy was at its highest—in its heyday, the Golden’s summer reservations booked up more than a year in advance—but because its historical roots lay in the summer season.

  Photos ornamenting the hotel documented the “hot” season from the early years. Brian loved to study them, to let the history envelop him as he passed framed pictures of ladies in the modest swimwear of the sixties, children licking Popsicles, men playing bridge under umbrellas. He made his way to Memory Lane now, the nickname of the hallway that housed the majority of the pictures. He eyed a large print of the canteen, which still served cold beers and hot dogs all day long, and the kidney-shaped pool, affectionately called the Nugget, where the bobbing heads of children looked like pinheads dotting the surface. A recent guest had complained that the curvy lines of the pool made it difficult to do laps. Replacing the pool with the more modern rectangular shape now in fashion would cost a fortune, and Brian didn’t quite know where that ranked on the list of desperately needed renovations. After the bedbug crisis, he’d had no choice on the mattresses. And when the golf clubhouse had suffered a devastating flood, it had meant new everything. There was simply no budget for discretionary improvements. Not if they were going to make payroll. To pay the insurance premiums. To keep up bountiful platters of food.

  “This look okay, boss?” came the voice of the hotel’s long-standing social director, Larry Levine, aka the Tummler. Hired by Benny and Amos in the late 1960s, Larry was the kid from their neighborhood who could always stir up a good time. On the sizzling streets of downtown Manhattan, he hosted egg-cracking-on-sidewalk competitions, organized stickball tournaments, and was the first to pull the plug on the fire hydrant. When it was clear the hotel needed a full-time minister of fun, there was one clear choice. If the Golden was going to compete with the other giants in the area, a top-notch entertainment master was needed. Fifty years later, Larry was still the activities director. As he approached, Brian noticed he had on two different shoes.

  Larry handed over a printed sheet of paper with a list of the hotel’s daily activities. Brian’s heart sank as he perused it. Combined with Larry’s bizarre comments in the newspaper, it confirmed what he’d suspected for the past six months. And it meant he couldn’t put off a call to Larry’s wife any longer.

  “Larry, this is an activities list from December 1983. Look here. It says ice skating show at ten; ski hill opens at eleven; snowman-building competition after lunch. Rubik’s cube demo in the pagoda. Look outside, Larry. It’s sunny. It’s June, Lar. We have water aerobics, the walking club, outdoor checkers.”

  Larry stared at him for a beat, then glossed with the sheen of embarrassment.

  “Right. What was I thinking? Let me go print up the correct schedule,” Larry said, shuffling back to his office. These kinds of episodes were happening with more frequency. Larry would be unaware of his surroundings or say something totally out of time and place, but would recover moments later. Brian clung to those flashes of clarity, hoping that whatever was ailing Larry was transitory. He could ask Larry directly, but he didn’t want to shame the man, who was clearly trying to cover up whatever was going on. This was common with dementia patients, according to Brian’s Google search. The more prudent course of action would be to call Sylvia, Larry’s wife. There
was no reason he shouldn’t do that today. It wasn’t like the phones were ringing off the hook.

  Brian took in the faded salmon of the lobby carpet, the mysterious stains on the wallpaper, the threadbare sofas with cushions permanently sunken from the weight of guests fed three decadent, diet-be-damned, all-inclusive meals a day.

  Twelve million dollars.

  The number had echoed continuously in Brian’s brain since the formal offer had come in. “Twelve mil, huh?” his father had repeated when Brian had shared the news. “I have to tell Louise.”

  The Goldmans and the Weingolds were fifty-fifty partners, so that meant six million for his family, which he would split evenly with Peter. Technically the proceeds of a sale would go to his parents, but they’d already made it clear they intended to pass their share down. There would be taxes and legal fees, but he’d probably be left with more than a couple million dollars at the end of the day. To Peter, it would be pocket change. His brother was a partner in a fancy law firm in Manhattan. His house in Alpine, New Jersey, had cost nearly three million dollars. Brian had looked it up after his sister-in-law, Greta, had gone off the rails when he’d kept his shoes on and tracked the faintest trace of dirt onto the white silk rug in the palatial living room. Who chose white for a rug? Nobody with a hospitality background, that was for sure. Only someone with money to burn. Unlike Peter, to Brian anything north of a million was an impossibly large sum to consider. How would he spend it? Would he have anyone to share it with? Maybe Angela.

  Angela Franchetti had been his on-again, off-again girlfriend for the past eighteen months. She was a local girl; his parents would call her a townie. She’d practically grown up in the hotel; her father, Vinny, was a full-time employee and in charge of the seasonal waitstaff. He was famous among Golden guests for his recommendations. The thick-accented Italian could be heard three tables over saying things like, “The gefilte is heaven tonight,” or “Too much salt in the soup in my humble opinion.” To Angela and the other children of staff, Brian, Peter, and Aimee were royalty, pint-sized nobility waiting to be handed the keys to the castle. And Brian had the Kennedy looks to go along with the Camelot image, or so everyone told him. Thick sandy brown hair that was just now going gray, blue eyes, cheekbones that Janet, the cosmetics vendor, wanted at. “If I could swipe bronzer on those babies . . .” she would kid him, to which he’d put up his hands in a karate defense.