There were no lazy, hazy days of summer when I was a waiter in the Catskills, trying to keep pace with guests who were devouring dishes faster than I could dish them out.

If you were lazy, you heard from the kitchen staff, usually linebacker-sized guys on probation from Attica who didn’t take kindly to unmotivated college kids. Or you heard it from your elderly Jewish guests, who when hungry were far scarier than the guys from Attica.

I’d have 40 guests sitting down to breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Stevensville Hotel in Swan Lake. That meant I served about 520 plates of food every day. That’s not a typo. Nobody in these hotels had seconds. They had fourths and fifths.

Over the course of a summer, that’s about 30,000 main dishes of food. That’s not counting soups, desserts and bowls of borscht.

I can’t tell you how many times I’d count fingers to make sure they didn’t mistake mine for a lady finger. Or check the stains on my shirt to confirm it was from beet juice and not my blood.

And God forbid my guests should run out of onion rolls when the tables next to them had plenty. That’s when I’d hide the sharp knives.

I learned quickly that the coffee was never hot enough; the cold fruit soup never chilled enough. And no matter how much food I brought out — it was never enough.

The money was good, but I was never sure if I would live long enough to spend it. So for a few summers I traded in my gold waiter’s jacket for a bronze tan.

I was the pool manager at Stevensville.

Best job a guy could have summering in the Catskills.

Managing the pool didn’t mean I managed the mechanics of the outdoor pool. Nor did it mean I was responsible for the safety of guests who swam in the pool. Those jobs are hard. This job was easy.

I was the maitre d’ of the outdoor pool area. Had a whole seating chart to make sure anyone who wanted a lounge chair to sit around the pool got one. Sun or shade.

Amazingly, the money a guest would put down for their room did not include a lounge by the pool. But for a buck a day, they could reserve a wooden one with a cushion. And they did. As soon as they checked in. They’d wait on line to guarantee themselves a seat as if they were buying Super Bowl tickets. Only these seats were much more valuable. They came with a pool.

I don’t remember what I ate yesterday for dinner. But after more than 40 years, I can still reel off names of guests and exactly where they sat. Like A-list celebs, the regulars always had their favorite spots. No reservation needed.

Elderly sisters Ida and Mae stayed a month and took lounges B1 in the sun and C1 in the shade. Bobby Abelow, a bachelor who worked at Gimbels, sat at A17, the 50-yard line of the pool. And Mr. Beneseroff, always with a pipe and dime store detective magazines, sat at F1 — in the sun but wrapped in towels. All nice people.

Everyone has a memory of those lazy, hazy summer days in the Borscht Belt. 

Marisa Scheinfeld, a photojournalist raised in the Catskills whose book The Borscht Belt documented the remains of the resorts, is the founder and director of the Borscht Belt Historical Marker Project, whose mission is to interpret and designate places important to the Borscht Belt’s vibrant history and to consider its impact on American Jewish life, the legacy of the Catskills and American culture and entertainment.

On Sunday the project holds its third marker dedication at Swan Lake’s Borscht Belt era followed by a lakeside klezmer concert. For details visit: https://borschtbelthistoricalmarkerproject.org.

Join me as we share stories about the Catskills, remember its impact and pay tribute to this truly historic place. 

Barry Lewis is a longtime journalist and author who lives with his wife Bonnie in the Town of Neversink. He can be reached at      barrylewisscdemocrat@gmail.com.