Beyond the floodlights, the slanting floor of the Concord Hotel's coliseum-sized nightclub rose into astonishing distance. The S.R.O. audience, 3,000 strong, was swaddled in mutation mink and choked with pearls; star-sapphire pinkie rings glinted whenever their silk-suited owners shot their cuffs. Even "Uncle Miltie'' Berle was impressed. Onstage last week, he bared the bright new caps on his teeth, leered at the enormous room, and delivered a typically backhanded Broadway compliment: "You think this is something? Next year they're going to build an indoor mountain."
Next year the Concord's Owner Arthur Winarick may have to. Competition in the Catskills is continuous. Million-dollar swimming pools, championship golf courses, lobbies as big as Latin American airports are commonplace now. Grossinger's, affectionately known as the "G," even boasts its own aircraft landing field. If Kutsher's, another high-priced hostelry, should suddenly sprout a polo field, the G or the Concord might be forced to build an artificial sea beach, complete with waves.
Toughest Audience. Gone are the simple pleasures of the koch alain (cook alone) bungalows, the overgrown farmhouses, the adult camps that catered to the hungry garment workers, the marriage-minded Manhattan secretaries of the '205 and '303. In those days, when the whole area was happy to be known as the Borscht Belt, the camps and hotels spawned their own entertainers. Danny Kaye, Moss Hart, Dore Schary, Phil Silvers—all served their apprenticeships, responding manfully to the boss's frantic cry: "Make the guests happy!"
Now the big-money, big-bill payers demand big-name stars of Broadway and TV. So the Concord shells out $6,500 for one night of Berle; the G imports Pat Suzuki, Robert Merrill, George Jessel (its smaller nightclub keeps its budget down to $2,000 for individual acts). There are some 50 hotels in the Belt, and top entertainers—Georgia Gibbs, Sammy Davis Jr., Tony Martin, Red Buttons—make the rounds. Says Comedian Gene Baylos, who is spending the summer playing the Belt: "You're facing the toughest audience. They become connoisseurs, and they're very critical. Hell, they've seen everybody."
Planned Togetherness. In an effort to give good value for rates that run up to $189 a week (for a room with two baths), the hotels-stretch their policy of planned entertainment into every waking hour. Gone are the toomlers, the noisy resident clown's who sang welcome and farewell songs for guests and yakked it up all over the lobby. Instead, there are art schools, beauty parlors as jammed as airraid shelters under attack, discussion groups, dancing classes. And everywhere, from swimming pool to dining room, there is the lavish style show that the guests put on themselves. The dawn-to-dawn display of jewels and furs has been known to disconcert even the G's well-trained staff. Last week a waiter greeted a middle-aged lady by asking: "If you wear mink at breakfast, how can you top it the rest of the day?" The woman coolly taught him one of the newer ploys of ostentation: "I save my stone martens for dinner."