An Eating Diary of My Summer Dates So Far

Plus...do you remember the roller coaster scene in FEAR?

I have exactly one month until I expire in the EU as 90-day wonder and I won’t lie, I am unwell thinking about my return-ish. (I’ll be back in the states but not for long, if all goes well with my current plan of action). The next few weeks I’ll have to practice living in the gray because c'est la vie. To curb anxiety I am reflecting back on summer so far at Le Sarrasin with a cheesy crepe situation, the sunshine, and a Coca Cola—writing until I can’t possibly write anymore. My mind has been elsewhere for weeks now and with deadlines, too many feelings, adventuring, and dealing with my imposter (ICYMI: faux Jennifer Rice is still out there living it up under my reputation. More soon…), I wanted to take a pause to absorb it all in.

And my book. MY BOOK! I had a date this weekend with a French publisher, in which I cold pitched Hot + Hungry, on the fly. He asked me what I was waiting for and I replied, “the dead of winter when there are no distractions.” You see, I’m already distracted while writing at this cafe as three handsome French men just sat down beside me.

Focus. Focus.

Back to the publisher. A dream date, indeed, however lost my appetite when his smooshed face cat jumped on the table, like it was normal (it was..!), watching cat hair slowly make its way onto my pizza plate and into my wine glass. “Princess really likes you,” he said, as he started to pet my arm like I was a pet cat too. I really wanted to eat the f*cking pizza. I was starving but Princess had just taken a shit behind the piano so all I could think about was how to politely slide underneath the door and go home. He was handsome, a little timid, very sweet, super smart, and quite the opposite of some recent dates, which was nice—but zero compatibility, even after I learned his dad was some kind of Brie wizard in the countryside.

Anyway, summer 2023 has been amazing. Full of exploration, laughter, fast new friends, utter lust, the best sex of my life, and so much incredible food along the way. As I anticipated with time, post divorce, I am learning to trust men again…perhaps only one, so much that I'd trust my life in his hands.

While I can’t give you the very juicy details yet (there’s a book for that!), I decided to sum up my dates by a few culinary gems that I got to try along the way. FYI: If a man asks you on a Champagne and caviar date, be sure to confirm that he is referring to actual Champagne and caviar first (!!!).

Quenelle in Lyon, France

It was hot AF in Lyon. We stopped at Le Petit Glouton at about mile 10/16 for lunch. The last thing I wanted was hot and hearty Lyonnaise food but he insisted I try a few traditional dishes. Quenelle is like a giant egg-shaped dumpling mixed with fish (or meat). In this case, pike fish sitting in a bath of piping hot buttery shellfish red sauce. It was not fishy at all and Dauphinoise potatoes are always a treat.

I ate what I could and found pure joy in watching my date legit clean the plate as if he hadn’t eaten in a while—only this was our third food stop on our tour de Lyon. I don’t know what came over me but watching him eat like a beast wildly turned me on….

Granita and Sicilian brioscia in Letojanni, Sicily

Men, here’s a tip: don’t get a day hotel without consent. And if you are still an asshole and do, please make sure it’s not a half ass $50 hotel. If you’re still trying to get laid and you’ve proceeded to endlessly lie about your height and everything else, well, good luck. Does Four Seasons do day rates?

To cool down, in more than one way, I posted up at a beach cafe after I screamingly told my date to f@ck off and enjoyed a lemon granita and brioche as the Sicilians do. A first time dunking warm brioche into tangy, perfect, ice cold lemon granita. Verdict: yes, please! I did learn that Letojanni was way less chaotic than Taormina and filled with locals in case you visit Taormina and panic like I did.

A Michelin-starred meal with a man who didn’t speak English in Naples, Italy

Il Comandante was stellar but my date didn’t speak any English. It was rather challenging but in the end we communicated through our senses and I could tell when he was overly excited by a dish and I’m sure he caught on by my super obvious food orgasm over the bufala butter. Pure ecstasy with the same flavor you’d expect from the cheese but with the texture of a decadent face cream.

There was lots of Google translate and because of it being a Michelin restaurant the staff did each dish spiel in English in Italian but I imagine it would have been slightly more difficult if this weren’t the case. Pictured: the “golden pomodoro” course where a beautiful tomato was covered up with an edible gold flake blanket. Not pictured: my jaw dropping a few days later as I saw on social media that this man is getting married in a couple of weeks. I thought I almost lost my nipple between the sheets that evening, did this mean nothing to him (lol). Perhaps this memo got lost in translation…

Meter pizza in Vico Equense, Italy

“What do you prefer, pizza or sex?,” he said while driving like a maniac around the windy roads to Vico Equense, a seaside town just before Sorrento. This was a post kitchen rendezvous (catch up here if you missed the last Bitchen) so I was torn. I love pizza but MAMMA MIA, the sex…the sex...the sex. Okay the meter pizza(s) and copious amounts of fried finger foods (ala fried rice balls with mortadella, fried zucchini flowers and so on) and beers were an epic post-sex delight. There was so much food we had to set the pizza on its own chair.

And if you want to make others around you uncomfortable, make out at a popular viewpoint like no one’s watching. Simply perfect, as was the FEAR-like roller coaster scene in the car on the way back to Bacoli. Yes, you all remember this scene.

Meats and cheeses and wines, oh my, in Montepulciano, Italy

Under the Tuscan sun, a dream date, in fact, until it wasn’t. Cue butt plug story (read here) after a huge wooden board of local meats and cheeses was consumed. Sax Wine Bar is a solid stop up in elevation and a ways away from the funneled crowd of day trippers. Spritzes, sunshine, snacks and an epic wine list await. If you are thinking of giving someone a butt plug I’d strongly suggest not taking them out to a giant meat and cheese feast prior. But that's just my opinion.

Lake beans and strangozzi with summer truffles in Perugia, Italy

One of my favorite themes of dating this summer has been men taking the time to understand and appreciate who I am and what I do. I love food and culture. I also love Italians. They’re so proud and passionate about their gastronomy, even more so down South, and it’s the most romantic thing in the world (to me) to see an Italian man fixate on where to take his food journalist date to impress.

Osteria Priori in Perugia was outstanding from start to finish. Umbrian bubbles and lots of cheeses and meats from the region, including cinghiale (wild boar) to start; a trio of panzanella, this super tasty eggy dish, and Trasimeno beans that grow around the lake that transported me back to my childhood, where rice and field peas were prominent at suppertime during summer months; and strangozzi, a long rectangular wheat pasta specific to Umbria with summer truffles graciously shredded on top.

A stroll within the walls of a a true 14th-century village is a perfect way to walk off food coma.

Fraciacorta, jamon and Opera in Verona, Italy

I’d spent the day in Venice sweating so hard that I had a white line of salt sweat rimmed around the waist my black linen skirt. I’d run out of time so I went straight into my date. Blah, I remember thinking. I was wiped. He was waiting for me at the train station, in front of his silver Volvo SUV, smiling from ear to ear as if it were some 80s rom com, as I walked up to him. I manifested perfectly this time: super tall, very handsome but not too handsome, engaging, witty, smart, and able to deal with my anti-commitment self. His pale blue linen shirt, half unbuttoned, as he ordered two glasses of Franciacorta rosé at a Caffè Borsari, didn’t help my ring o’ sweat. (Read about Franciacorta in this story I wrote for Vogue a few years back, it’s delicious!).

I’d pined over getting a ticket to the Opera at Arena di Verona so badly that he took me up to the line to ask about a last minute ticket to sit my sweaty ass in a nose bleed seat to see La Traviata….cue Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—only I would be sitting on sizzling ass hot stone in the arena, constructed in the year 30 CE. No tickets left so he whisked me down the street to a very casual bar, just outside of the arena. We ordered a bottle of sparkling wine, ate some weird little finger sandwiches with radicchio and mayo (that were pretty delicious) and listened to the opera. Romantico!

“When you come back I’ll take you to the Opera and will call ahead and get good seats—and then we’ll take my sailboat out on Garda the next day.” In hindsight, I want to slap myself silly for being so exhausted and so un-tigerish. TBC…..

Neapolitan pizza (with cat hair) in Paris, France

“I’ll pick up the best pizza in Europe for dinner,” he texts, as I head out the door en route to his place. “Don’t say this to the Italians,” I reply (in all seriousness!). On his makeshift table were two glorious pizzas from Peppe Pizzeria:

Burrata Multicolore with basil pesto, candied red and yellow pomodoro, stracciatella and my favorite addition, grilled almonds.

The Queen Tartufo was dense, with summer truffle cream, fior di latte mozzarella, Paris mushroom fricassee, stracciatella, grilled hazelnuts, and summer truffles shaved on top. It was a full-on meal.

Chef Giuseppe Cutraro won best pizzeria in Europe in 2022 and yes, the pizza was insane, but my heart still pitter patters for pizza in its birth place: In Napoli. It was a nice date, minus the cat hair.

That’s all for now but l’ve got lots of Bitchen to do!. I’m in Paris until August 15 and then meeting an Italian man (perhaps one from above…) in Rome to spontaneously road trop along the Costa dei Trabocchi for a few days.

Ciao for now!

-Jenn