By David Minsky
By Jen Mangham
By Bill Wisser
By Laine Doss
By Bill Wisser
By Dana De Greff
By Laine Doss
By Zachary Fagenson
Most couples can't tolerate so much of each other, no matter the strength of their love. And it's healthy to cherish time apart; our individual jobs and lifestyles may keep us from killing -- from sheer, maddening boredom -- our beloved life partners. There are exceptions, of course -- partnerships that are born in the bedroom can boom in business (and vice versa). These couples, able to communicate on every level, may even have an edge over other enterprises when they join forces at work.
That's the way it is for John and Sheila Jacob, the highly trained mom and pop of Continental cuisine. Sheila Jacob considers it a privilege to share her workdays as well as her nights with her husband John. The Jacobs own the commendable Wild Rose in Hollywood, a 45-seat restaurant in the Emerald Park Office Center. John, the chef, began his career at the Pier House in Key West when he was eighteen, then trained at the Culinary Institute of America. The extroverted Sheila manages the front of the house; she also makes the pasta and bakes the nightly assortment of sweets. The size of the restaurant naturally demands that they work closely and productively; it helps, as Sheila said, that they "got rid of the fighting years ago. Now it's relaxing to do it [work] together." Every morning, the two of them enjoy shopping for that day's produce and seafood, buying only the freshest of ingredients, writing the menu based on what's available. They are in many ways the perfect team.
More than culinary skill makes the Wild Rose blossom, though the couple's expertise is abundantly evident. The harmony that exists behind the kitchen doors translates to the dining room, allowing for a casual, relaxing dining experience. I've been mired too often in the quirky pretentiousness of South Beach eateries and the staid affluence of Coral Gables dining establishments; I tend to forget that people run restaurants for reasons other than local fame and a quick monetary return. The Jacobs sold Michael's, their restaurant in East Hampton, Long Island, because, with its huge size, it lacked an intimate touch. Their first venture together in Florida, the Wild Rose, has no "investors," no "limited partnerships." It doesn't have a bar or even a written menu.
What it does have is the Jacobs, a couple married to the business as well as to each other, whose major ambition is to make their customers as happy as they are themselves.
So this must be love at work at the Wild Rose. It is a familial kind of affection that will surely lure me again. The clientele, a far-reaching "local" base that extends from Miami to Boca Raton, feels similarly: most diners, ranging in age from young 30s to young 60s, are regulars, appearing two to three times weekly. They come back for both the consistency of John's one-man kitchen (he has two assistants but no other chef) and the unforced intimacy of Sheila's dining room.
A homey air extends to the menu. A blackboard is hauled to your table, propped on a chair in front of you. Sheila introduces and explains each dish the way a schoolteacher conducts a lesson, pausing for questions and peering eagerly at you to make sure you're completely enthralled. On a recent September evening, we were certainly enticed by the menu's pasta, meat, and seafood dishes, all of which can be specially ordered if the kitchen isn't too busy. Suppose, for example, the linguine with fresh pesto sounded intriguing, but you felt like having fish. No problem. Pompano pesto is born, free of labor pains. Sheila even offers various other options during her spiel.
The blackboard menu this night was surprisingly diverse -- the Jacobs seem to have a strong grasp of international and regional cuisines. Appetizers had a global reach with the spanakopita (Greek spinach pie), while remaining down-home with local seafood. We tried fried oysters and succulent, buttery mollusks, simultaneously crisp on the outside and yielding on the inside. The cocktail sauce served with the oysters was relatively dry, made sweet with a tomato paste -- not watery ketchup -- and tangy with shredded horseradish. This dish, so easily overcooked by lesser chefs, even tempted two of my guests who don't normally eat oysters to try them. They preferred, however, the Louisiana pie, a slice of quiche stuffed with crab meat and served with stewed and seasoned tomatoes on the side. The flaky pastry crust of the pie enhanced rather than overwhelmed the delicacy of the egg and crab, and like a Spanish omelet, the quiche combined beautifully with the slightly spicy tomatoes.