In the grand tradition of 18-year-olds everywhere, Yonathan Jacobi was confronted with the eternal question: How on Earth do I make my life meaningful enough not to end up living in my parents’ basement forever?
Just as luck would have it, Jacobi was managing a kosher butcher shop that decided to close up shop—perhaps to live out a quiet retirement in Bermuda, who knows? Graduation was around the corner, and instead of doing what most sensible teens do—like panic or scroll TikTok—he opted for the high-risk, high-reward path: starting his own business. And on February 15, four years post-pondering, he launched Yonis’ Kosher Jerky in the bustling oasis that is Great Neck Plaza.
Now, while most kids fetch popcorn or slouch in front of video games, Jacobi was cutting his teeth at a butcher shop amidst the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic at the tender age of 16. Don’t worry, he wasn’t in the back corner watching Versace tutorials; he was honing his butchering skills and eventually specializing in America’s favorite jerky.
“My boss imparted the meat gospel to me,” said Jacobi, echoing the wisdom of generations past, where learning the precise angle to slice a brisket is equivalent to mastering algebra. “I experimented with different cuts, machines, and eventually found my calling—beef jerky. And let me tell you, it was selling faster than a kitchen appliance on Black Friday.”
But alas, when the butcher shop suddenly pulled the curtain, Jacobi was flooded with messages from former customers who demanded to know: “Is there still jerky in the world?” Caught in a whirlwind of demand, he devised a master plan: turning his garage into a high-tech jerky factory—because what better way to impress the neighbors than with the scent of meat products wafting through the neighborhood?
Much to his surprise (and likely horror), his side gig quickly escalated from him making a few bags of jerky on the weekends to selling hundreds weekly. Suddenly, synagogues wanted platters, offices saw a vending machine opportunity, and nervous travelers stocked up like they were preparing for a zombie apocalypse. He found himself delivering jerky across North Shore, like a very dedicated, meat-centered Amazon Prime.
Eventually, Jacobi’s father chimed in at a village board meeting, whimsically reflecting on how his son’s jerky business turned their home into something resembling a late-night infomercial. “People calling at all hours asking, ‘Can I have two jerky?’” His laughter echoed through the assembly, perhaps masking the sheer exhaustion of living in a jerky house.
Now, armed with aspirations of selling wholesale to grocery stores, Jacobi established a permanent location. It became necessary, of course, for fancy certifications—because nothing says compliant like a brick-and-mortar structure. Every meat morsel flowing out of Yonis’ is certified OU Glatt kosher, under constant rabbinical watch as if the ingredients might spontaneously combust if left unchecked.
With a production process rivaling haute cuisine, Jacobi can whip up a batch of jerky in about three days, involving a ritualistic marination in one of several mind-boggling marinades—including some that sound like the names of fancy golf courses. This Passover alone, Jacobi managed to sell out thousands of bags in an astonishing two days—a feat that probably led to some high-stakes negotiations over the Seder table.
As he looks ahead, Yonathan isn’t stopping at beef. His ambitions expand gloriously into uncharted territory, exploring turkey, mushrooms, and possibly even fruit jerky. You know, just in case someone wants to pair their beef sticks with a side of antioxidants. With a bemused smile, Jacobi reflects on how his venture began in a garage and has already snowballed into a meat empire. At the ripe old age of 22, he’s got more entrepreneurial experience than most, while his classmates are still grappling with existential crises in lecture halls.
