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Winning’s one of the best feelings in the world. Getting out of the car in front of adoring fans screaming your victory and cheering your name just fills all of your lungs, body and soul with such good nectar and ambrosia that it truly makes you feel whole.
Getting on that podium, to the center place, the one reserved for first and first place only, with a trophy in tow, spilling champagne on everyone even more so. And if you’re followed and surrounded by people you may consider close friends, even family, is even more beautiful of a feeling.
It’s just like the first time, every time. It’s the same feeling, never leaving the gut, creeping through your whole body in a warm embrace and making you laugh, cry and every other emotion in between at the same time. Describing it is one thing, feeling it truly seals the deal.
Seeing it in a person, better yet seeing it in a friend, is something else entirely, yet so similar. It fills you completely and gives you a shock full of giddy joy. It’s like watching a master at their art coming up with something they themselves do recognize as a masterpiece while they claim so with starry and proud eyes.
McQueen screamed the whole race from his seat, getting up every time the red number 1 sped in front of him. Just a blur, and seeing the driver inside was even more of a challenge, but he was sure Francesco was smiling from ear to ear every lap he still made in first.
And now, seeing Francesco on the podium, agitating the bottle of champagne still with his suit on, face red with sweat but so happy and satisfied, ready to celebrate his hard-earned victory, made him even happier. He was ecstatic, and he never would have guessed just seeing a race would make him feel such strong emotions. The adrenaline he was used to was kind of missing, but the plethora of other feelings more than made up for it.
He might get used to it.
But he also knew from personal experience what had to come next. After the ceremony, the dude would be plagued by the press for half an hour at the very least, drawing them to him like moths to a freshly lit burning red flame.
And that was fine by him, honestly. He needed the chill time every now and again, not being the center of attention, and besides: he had an access card in his pocket for all his needs right now.
Before the race had begun, a member of the F1 staff had given it to him saying it was from Francesco, that it should grant him passage to the racer’s pit. Which he had yet to find, but had plenty of time to do so.
As much as he wanted to deny it, he was curious to see how much those pits differentiated from his own. How many spare tires would there be? Maybe some blueprints for last minute repairs on the car? What would the monitors show? Where would they keep the fuel, and what brand do they use? Dinoco, maybe?
Or probably not that. F1 doesn’t refuel. He wasn’t even quite sure why.
The only downside, although some fans wouldn’t call it such, was that the card had been custom made for him, from Francesco, and he could easily tell. It had put a smile on his face, considering the dude had printed a photo of himself with an Instagram filter on top of the card and wrote ‘for Miss Sally ;)’ on the front.
That one was one of the better ones, at least. He had pitch black glasses, probably trying to look cool, although the questionable pose really sold it. Any fan would pay to have it, and should he ever need the money he might even think about it. But in the end, he just pocketed it back with a shallow sigh. What could he do, the guy was just like that.
Also, he had to hide it before he got home, and before Sally or Flo could get their hands on it. There was no telling what the two would have done to obtain something like that.
So McQueen started to make his way down, towards the exit of the track, just like everybody else. At some point he spotted someone wearing the security uniform, and asked where Bernoulli’s pit was. The woman looked a bit confused but scanned the card once he showed it to her, and pointed him in the right direction, still keeping the questionable glare.
Curse that photo.
As he was walking down that narrow road, filled with people pacing back and forth from point to point carrying weird stuff he wouldn’t even be able to say whether it was for the car or not, he was starting to get a bit hungry.
He hadn’t eaten anything yet but apparently, neither had the pilots or the crews. He could tell because the air was filled with so many aromas all around the pit areas, it almost made him want to follow the most appetizing one and just… “borrow” some food.
A few pilots (and maybe their crews, or crew chiefs) even had their small kitchen trailer opened, and he couldn’t help but sniff every smell, ranging from sweet to bitter to peppery, the familiar and calm sound of things sizzling and cooking and baking, the warmth of water when it boiled being reflected on the hard asphalt and coming right up to his chest.
Everything combined just made his mouth water.
He should have brought something to eat, maybe packed a lunch, maybe even bought something at the overpriced vending machines around the stadium before coming down.
Well no use in going back out now, he figured, especially because he wouldn’t be able to find his way out in any case. The place was just that much of a maze, and everything was so constricted and small anywhere he could look, very different from the pits he was used to.
Finally he spotted the back of the red pit. It looked very similar to the one he saw back at the World Grand Prix, even if those thoughts just brought back memories of the people trying to kill him. It made him flinch.
But the pit was familiar and spoke of home. It was a nice flaring red, flashy just like the driver, and it had ‘Francesco Bernoulli’ and the number 1 written all over it.
It kind of reminded him of his own and that made him take a calmer and deeper breath. He showed his card to another member of the security, who eyed it suspiciously, but then just shrugged.
“Bernoulli would do that.”
With those words, he was finally granted full access inside the cramped block. The place was even smaller when inside: just enough space for a few basic necessities on a minuscule desk, like a picture of Francesco’s whole family and Porto Corsa seen from the sea.
There were a couple more pictures on a mini counter with people he didn’t recognize, and one from the end of the World Grand Prix, specifically the last race they eventually had in Radiator Springs, with both of them holding their respective trophies and exchanging rivalry glares. He remembered that ending clearly. He did look fondly at that.
Until he noticed the loving glance Sally was sending Francesco instead of him (or was actually him? It was hard to see… maybe it was both? Ah, he couldn’t tell and he couldn’t unsee it!).
More than one picture was taken at the end of that race, of course he would choose that one.
One member of the crew spotted him at some point, asked him for an autograph briefly with a giddy voice, but everything was over just as quickly as it began: they had to go out to lunch and rightfully so, since they were on the track since the early lights of morning, and remained in that place on the ready until the race was truly over.
Some spilling of beverages and confetti on the floor revealed of the celebration they must have had. It was poorly cleaned.
Another crew member informed him that Francesco should be back soon, but to count at least an hour or so because he had never won on this track before, and the press was sure to keep him occupied for a good minute.
He didn’t really believe it, not even he had ever been kept that long after a victory on track after all, but he clearly underestimated the power the news had around here, because almost a whole hour and a half later, the F1 racer still wasn’t back He should have just gone out to get some lunch himself by that point, or even with the crew.
He sighed. Grabbing a bite, and maybe bringing Francesco something too, sounded like the best of ideas but he really believed he should be here any minute now.
Any. Minute. Now.
Hopefully.
Unfortunately, when he would eventually be back, they will both be starving.
And three o’clock rolled around.
“McQueen! Lightning, friend!”
Speak of the devil…
Finally Lightning raised from his seat and met Francesco. He barely approached that the man hugged him tight, spinning him around the cramped room once.
“Hi, Francesco. How have you been?” Lightning could barely mutter after he was released from the squeeze.
“I’m great, super great now that you’re here! Enjoyed the race?” He asked, with a bit of a knowing smile and raising his eyebrows. Lightning humored him.
“Absolutely. My throat almost got sore from all the cheering. But tell me, knowing I was here, how did you handle all the pressure?”
“Pressure? Ha, what pressure? Just the second most important racer in the world looking at me? No pressure.” He brushed off his shoulder with a playful tone.
“The second, really?” He bantered. “I beat you at least once, and you can bet your shiny car I will do it again! But really, you’ve been great today. I’d love to try the 95 on one of this circuits once.”
“Say no more, McQueen. I’ll be here in America for a few more days, just time to pack things up and then I’ll have to go back to Europe, but we can have a race right here one of these days, just let me ask my crew chief! Giovanni!” He turned almost back to the track, but Lightning was quick enough to grab his arm.
“Afraid I’ll pass. The 95 is still in Radiator Springs and it’d be a hassle to bring it here. Mack has like, one free day a week and I think he should take it.”
Francesco did appear a bit saddened at that, but he didn’t let it affect his mood. Instead, he took Lightning arm in arm and started walking him toward a lovingly red trailer which he somehow missed before, or was brought here in the last two hours or so he had spent waiting. On the side, there was impressive art of Francesco and his car, in a monochrome of shiny red paint.
“I see, it’ll be for next time. I hope didn’t make you wait too long?” He asked, with a more apologizing tone.
Lighting shrugged.
“No worries. I know how… tedious, the press can get. This is your first win here, is it not? They were bound to ask just that many more questions.” Francesco make a noise between a cackle and a sigh.
“It is. They just wouldn’t let me go and now I basically have a headache.” This time, Lightning’s response was a chuckle.
“I know how that feels. Those interviews can get so boring so fast… but by the way, have you had lunch yet?” Francesco opened his mouth to speak, but another noise interrupted them. Lightning’s stomach, at the mere mention of food, growled loud and clear for the rest of the people around to hear.
Francesco fought to keep himself composed at the comically loud noise by squinting his eyes and bringing his free hand to his chin, hoping to hide the laughter bubbling up inside him like hot water. When it was over, he cast a glance in the friend’s direction.
“I take it you haven’t either?”
Lighting was now as red as his car, or as the number 1 parked on the other side of the track, now with crew people, who had just got back, already working on it. He simply nodded and followed when Francesco began walking again at a faster pace, towards his trailer and small motor home which stood side by side.
“Fret not then, you will have the honor of tasting my delicious Italian cooking! Feast your eyes!” He said theatrically, almost slamming the door open before running in. Lightning froze on the door, uncertain, as the other racer just waltzed right in. He didn’t really mean to disturb and the afternoon was taking a turn he had not planned.
“Uh, I… I just came here to say hello, I didn’t mean to…” Francesco cut him off with a coy smile.
“Too late! Now you’re a guest. Fa’ come se fossi a casa tua.” Despite all the time spent with Luigi, and even more, Guido, Lightning really couldn’t wrap his head around Italian yet. But he hoped he was being welcomed in?
“What does that even mean? Really, Francesco, I don’t want to be a bother, I’ll jut be on my way and…”
“Nonsense! Get in, come on, sit anywhere.” The racer invited. Lighting did want to reply again, but the dude was already taking some food out of drawers and opening the fridge, mumbling to himself, having already accepted that McQueen was just going to stay there.
It reminded him of Cal’s southern hospitality in a way. And if that was the case, he knew there was no way for him to get out without at least a slice of cake and a pat on the back. Or in this case, probably Italian food.
Francesco got a couple of plates out, two glasses, a bottle of water and started laying the small table in the middle of the even smaller kitchen with a clanking sound. Lightning already had enough of confined spaces, but he just sighed still hesitant to go in. He could only try his last weapon.
“You really don’t have to…”
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t even make him flinch. Francesco kept going, back still to him, preparing what he would need to cook. He took out a small pot and began filling it with water, barely sparing him a glance.
“I insist! Now, how much pasta do you eat usually?” Lightning sat down at the table and shrugged, as the man covered the pot, put it on the stove and turned the gas under it all the way up. Pretty blue flames began dancing under it, sharing their warmth.
“I don’t know, how much is a portion?”
Francesco turned around briefly, just to open another drawer only mildly filled with pasta. He looked almost sorry to only have this much to offer, even if it was the most pasta Lightning had ever seen in his life.
“I can make two-hundred for you, two-hundred for me.”
“Two-hundred? Dude- that’s way to much!” Lightning almost screamed, eyes squinting. Francesco scoffed.
“Two hundred grams, not pounds or whatever you people use!” He replied. Thankfully Lightning was thinking ounces, but he also knew grams were really small of a scale, so he calmed down, shrugging.
“I have no idea how much that is then.”
Francesco glanced around to grab something else.
“Well, you’ll see. I swear you Americans will use anything but the metric system.” Lightning crossed his arms with a fake pout.
“Our system works!” Francesco replied as quick as his car.
“It really, really doesn’t!” But before Lightning could argue, the F1 racer turned to him again dropping the argument. “Ever had carbonara before?”
Apparently, Lightning’s vague glare was enough for him to understand and feel mildly displeased.
“How? Aren’t the tires guys from your crew from Italy? Heck, are they not from Porto Corsa? Did you not visit Italy at all for the Grand Prix?” He questioned, almost baffled.
“We were there, like, two days.” Lightning replied, shrugging again nonchalantly. He tried to push away the memories of believing Mater was home, when in reality he was risking his life without him, or any of them, even knowing. “Luigi and Guido kind of showed us around, but there wasn’t much time. We met their family and the whole town welcomed us, it was kind of weird. We ate some food there, but I don’t think it was anything called like that.”
Francesco shrugged, tapping his chin with a finger.
“I guess it is more of a southern thing. Anyway, you’ll be eating it now, don’t worry! It’ll be the best dish of your life!” He dug into the fridge and came back out looking victorious with a couple of eggs and a package with some Italian writings on it. It looked like meat inside, something akin to cubed bacon, hopefully, and another package with cheese. When he came back around and started prepping a pan, he couldn’t help but tap his fingers on the table, unable to stay still.
Eventually, he just asked.
“So what’s this carbuhnara?”
“It’s kind of a… sauce, I’d say, to eat pasta with and it’s super delicious. Also, any kind of pasta you prefer?” Francesco turned around once again, opening the same drawer and showing him different kinds. He really had it all, some long, some short, some weirdly colored and others that looked like… butterflies? He refrained from asking any questions about that.
Eventually he just sent him a look that could be read as ‘do I really want to answer this?’, until Francesco grabbed a plastic container with spaghetti and more Italian writings, only looking mildly disappointed.
“Let’s just go for a classic. One of these days, you’ll be coming to Italy with me. You’ll get a culture then.” Lightning nodded.
“Looking forward to it. Can, uh, I help you with anything?” But Francesco was imperturbable.
“Nope. You’re a guest. Just sit down and tell me if I can do anything to help you.”
Lighting sighed and got comfortable on the chair. Once, Cal had told him the same exact phrase. They had bickered back and forth that he just couldn’t do all the work himself. The situation had resolved itself with Lightning walking around the kitchen to the drawers until he spotted the forks and managed to put those on the table without him noticing.
So he did just that, he got up and spied the drawers.
Eventually he guessed where the cutlery was and managed to at least sneak those on the table. Once the water was starting to form familiar bubbles, salt was sprinkled in and pasta was put right after.
Then Francesco warmed up the pan he had taken before and put the sliced meat in. Lightning watched curiously, now by his side.
“What’s that?” The other man replied with a smile, agitating a wooden spoon he had got to stir the meat.
“Oh, it’s guanciale. I don’t think there’s a word in English for it. It’s the kind of meat you use.” Listening to the sound of it sizzling in the pan, and by the look of it, he could connect it to only one thing in his mind.
“So it’s like bacon?”
The fire of hell flashed for a second in Francesco’s eyes, and he raised a finger, blocking all other movements for a second.
“Non si fa con la pancetta!” Those words resounded like thunder and for a second Lightning thought he had screwed up their friendship (and now lunch) real bad. But then he recomposed himself and returned to a neutral position.
“Sorry. I got it from my southern grandma. Those folks can get pretty passionate about this stuff.” He almost whispered, as if telling a very important secret. “But no, it’s not like bacon even if some people do make carbonara with it, because it’s cheaper and easier to find. However, the original recipe is with guanciale, egg red, pecorino and just a bit of pepper. Nothing else. It’s simple but delicious.”
“You folks can get pretty passionate about cooking.” Lightning commented, as Francesco blushed a little in embarrassment, still softly apologizing for his outburst.
“I suppose we do. But it’s what makes these recipes pretty great.” Lightning nodded, and eyed the pasta slowly sagging into the pot. He was just starting to get involved.
“So enlighten me, what do we do next?” Francesco stirred the meat again, which was starting to get a prettier brownish color and its smell began filling the kitchen in warm sympathy.
“Well, once the meat is well sizzled, you can put the red part of the egg in the plates.” Lightning raised a brow.
“Just the red? What about the white?” Francesco shrugged, agitating his hand.
“I’ll use it for something else. You just want the red for this.”
So Lightning watched him separate the two parts of the egg in two clean swoops. The white was dropped into a container which then went straight into the fridge, and the two remaining red dots were instead put one in each plate. Francesco glanced at a clock on the microwave.
“Now we wait for the pasta to be ready, which should be around now.” He grabbed a fork from the table and used it to taste. He looked satisfied, and let Lightning have one too just to make sure they were both on the same page. It was still a bit raw in his opinion, but Francesco deemed it to be perfect, so in reality he had no choice in the matter.
When he received the okay from his friend, they cooperated to drain the pasta. After that, the spaghetti was put into the crunchy meat still in the pan, and stirred around it to get the flavor. It was then divided as evenly as possible between the two plates with the help of a fork, and put onto the table still fuming and emanating a pleasant and inviting aroma.
Lightning tried to get a good bite, but Francesco stopped him with a finger and a warning glance.
“Not yet! It’s missing the final touches.” He dived into the fridge once again, recovering yet another package with Italian writings. It read something like ‘pecorino romano’ and he had absolutely no idea what that meant. Francesco sprinkled some on his plate like snow before he could even ask. “Almost all ready!”
“Where do you even get all of this stuff?” He queried instead. Francesco shrugged, putting a generous amount of the white snow on his own plate. He then turned around, this time leaned on a counter under the sink to get some pepper.
“I go home frequently. And don’t get me wrong, but stuff from here is nothing like stuff from home.” Without even asking this time, he ground some on his own plate, and on Lightning’s too. Now, with the black and white and yellow and brownish red, the pasta looked more like an artistic composition rather than a dish.
“And if you ever run out? You have to go to a local store right?” Francesco put the can in between them, and finally sat down with a huff.
“No offense, but nothing is like home food, and you can’t find that here. If I really need it, I usually get it sent my way or cope with the lack until I’m around Italy again.” Lightning’s eyes rolled. He truly was just like that. Finally, he stirred the past around and got some on the fork.
“You really are passionate about food.”
This time, Francesco nodded knowingly. Fork in hand and satisfied smile on his lips, he got ready to dig in.
“Well, then, buon appetito!”
“Whatever you said.” McQueen simply replied, finally getting a taste.
It wasn’t like anything he had ever tasted before. All of the flavors exploded in perfect harmony inside his mouth. The texture of the pasta, the sweet and slick of the egg, all accompanied by the small slices of cheese and the delightful kick of the pepper every now and then, all of those tastes blended into a very powerful combo on his taste buds.
The warmth of the freshly made pasta made its way on the inside of his chest as it gently fell down his throat, and he couldn’t help but wish there was more after he had swallowed the first bite. Some still remained on his lips, and he looked down at the plate to get some more. The magic happened again.
It did remind him of Italy, of when the small city had welcomed him, of the exquisite cooking he had experienced there. Of the great advice uncle Topolino had given him, of the time he and his friends had spent together in the small town. It did make him feel welcomed, it made him feel like on the other side of the world, in a safe place.
And he could see Francesco’s face light up as Lightning said:
“This is incredible! It’s so simple, yet so delicious, I… where did you learn to cook like this?!” He couldn’t help but grab another bite right after. The other racer didn’t even try to hid his pride, while still reminiscing.
“My grandma was great at cooking. I spent a lot of time by her side when I was a kid, so… I learned some of her recipes and secrets. But, believe me when I say this, it’s the ingredients that do half the job. You just don’t have this around here.” He replied, pointing to his plate and getting another bite of his own. Lightning sighed after swallowing again.
“I really have to go to Italy with you.” Francesco’s face was as bright as the Sun.
“That’s the spirit! You won’t regret it!”
They finished their plates quickly, and despite Lightning almost feeling full, Francesco got some more stuff out of the fridge. Some vegetables, a piece of cheese, fruit, more cheese, too many kinds of cheese for him to count, salami, yet some more cheese, sausages, some of which had to be eaten raw, and would you guess it, one more kind of cheese.
That fridge seemed endless, when everything his own could carry were pizza leftovers and a bottle of milk. Out of all the offered food, Lightning grabbed half an apple, but that was it. He was feeling as stuff as a turkey on Thanksgiving already. Despite this, Francesco still tried to coax him into trying anything else.
“You don’t even want to have some cheese? I assure you, it’s great. This one is a toma.”
“I don’t know how you can eat after that much. I believe you, I’m just really too full.”
“Suit yourself.” Francesco replied, cutting himself some. The smell was really inviting, and the candid pure white color did peak his curiosity, but his body couldn’t take any more food. “So, how is your racing going?”
Lightning relaxed at that, feeling more comfortable in something that was his own turf.
“I’m glad you asked. I’m first in the Piston Cup rankings, obviously, but there are some interesting rookies this time.” Francesco hummed, rummaging trough the food to find something more to eat.
“You guys change pilots a lot. Who’s the new guy?”
“Don’t really know him yet, but I know his name and number. Bobby Swift, 19. Still looks a bit uncertain on the track, but he’s got it in him, I think. He beat Cal fair and square last time, the dude didn’t even see him coming!” He replied, thinking back to the moment Cal had got out of his car, mouth still agape from the internal manouvre he was surpassed with. The King had tried to bring him back to reality but for a while it was everything the Dinoco racer could think of. He looked so baffled it was almost comical. But Francesco brought him down to Earth.
“Who’s Cal?”
Lighting’s eyes grew wide, but then he remembered who he was talking with.
“Well, Cal Weathers, he’s the nephew of the racing legend! Do you know Strip Weathers, the King?”
“The King? Never heard of him.” He was trying to keep up a smile, but this time, his mouth truly fell.
“Never!?” Lightning’s eyes shot open. “How?? He’s incredible, I looked up to him so much when I was racing. Seven time Piston Cup winning champion, he’s one of the best of the best racers out there! Like, look! I think he won at least once in every single circuit. His car is truly the best of the best!” Lightning quickly got his phone out and made his way to the King’s Wikipedia page. He showed Francesco the picture of the man, sitting idly on his car, the beautiful 43, the crystal clear blue Plymouth Superbird. “You sure you never saw him?”
He was only met with a shrug and a shake of the head.
“Sorry, still nothing.”
“You have to meet him, I think you two would get along.” He replied, now with newfound energy. He should tell Tex about this. Or rather, maybe he could just ask Cal, that would be easier. Or, speaking of easy, even more direct. Next race, he had to make sure he could have a word with his crew chief.
“And how’s the guy’s nephew? Is he there just because of his uncle?” Lightning shook his head, remembering all the times the dude had won, and the very thin space between their cars in his rookie year.
“Not at all, Cal is a great racer in his own. Also, he’s racing for Dinoco, which is the most ambitious sponsor, it’s not like Tex gets anybody, y’know?” Between one bite and the other, Francesco pointed at Lightning.
“It’s the guy you denied, right?”
“Yup! Wait, if you know that, how do you not know about the King?” Lightning’s brow furrowed and he almost crossed his arms. Francesco shrugged, taking another bite of a fruit, this time.
“Man, I don’t know. I only know what you told me.”
“So, I… never told you of how I renounced my first Piston Cup?” Lightning leaned towards the table, squinting. Francesco almost retrieved back on the table.
“Yes you did that. You told me when I asked you how you ended up in Radiator Springs. But I don’t remember a ‘King’ being in there.”
“Oh.” Lighting leaned back on the chair, fingers now fidgeting. “Well, uh. Long story short I let second place overcome me and win after he had caused the King to crash. Or, his sponsor said the wreck wasn’t intentional but the contact was still there and he had a bad rep of causing the crashes, but whatever, in any case I pushed the King’s almost destroyed car over the finish line. I just couldn’t cross it after what I saw. It reminded me too much of what had happened to Doc.”
He felt his heart sink just pronouncing his name. The thing had happened so long ago, yet he felt the wound reopening every time he thought about it. On the track it was different, he used those feelings to push through, to grab the victory just an inch away from him. But with no way to use them, well, they just made his heart shrink on itself.
“I know how you feel. I lost my grandma a few years ago, and she was a big part of my life.” Francesco replied with a softer smile. “But I’m sure he would be very proud of who you’ve become. And don’t you have the Piston Cup that was dedicated to him? I’m certain he would appreciate knowing the effort you put into winning it. That was some dedication, Lightning.” He offered his hand, and the other squeezed it. It was the tiniest of comforts, yet it worked so well.
“I’m sure your grandma would be proud of your cooking skills, too.”
“I certainly hope so” Francesco whispered. Despite that, he gave his hand one final squeeze and then let go. “But enough with all this gloomy stuff. I have some chocolate, you want some?”
“More food? Do you ever get full?” Lighting almost whined.
“Of course I do, but this is just so delicious I can’t say no! Oh, wait, maybe I still have something sweet baked.” He reached back into the fridge to get something out, but Lighting was quick enough to shake his head this time.
“No, no no. Really, thanks, but I assure you I am good. In fact, I feel like I’m about to explode. I don’t know how you can eat that much.”
“Friend, it’s not hunger. It’s gluttony. You really have to come to Italy with me, then you’ll understand.”
Just as they were finally finishing, Lightning’s phone rang. It was Sally, and in that moment he finally had a chance at looking at the time, and he couldn’t quite believe what he saw.
One thing had led to another, and somehow it was five o’clock already. It was way past how much time he had said he would remain outside, and he really should get going.
Francesco got a glance at his phone and replied with a smirk. He leaned back on his chair, then forced his way up as Lightning answered the phone while trying to keep the conversation short.
“Hey, Sally.”
“Lightning! Where are you? The race ended more than four hours ago! Is everything okay?” Her tone was quite worried, and it was an understandable reaction, since he had not even sent her a text and was supposed to just say hi and hang out with his friend for no more than an hour, maybe two, and it was more than double that.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I just… got caught up with Francesco and ended up having lunch with him. Well, more like an afternoon brunch since he got here no more than an hour or so ago. I think.”
“Ah, so you’re with Bernoulli then!” Her voice turned kind of giddy, knowing everything was alright, but he knew what was about to come next. “Will you take a picture of- I meant with him? For… me to keep around?”
“Do you want a picture of me or a picture of him?” He replied, with a sly tone. Her own reply was more embarrassed and her voice stuttered.
“W-Well, of the both of you of course! You have the luck of knowing him personally!” He sighed.
“Sure thing, Sal. I might ask him if he wants.”
“For Miss Sally? This and more!” Francesco shouted in his direction, hoping to be heard through the phone.
Although, Sally’s reply was just a happy giggle.
“Alright, if you’re okay, everything’s good. Enjoy your time, boys! Bye!”
“Bye.” Lightning snorted as he tapped the red button on his phone, and confronted Francesco’s gaze.
“Still a fan of mine, I see.”
“You’re kidding? She has your car as her wallpaper, this is ridiculous!” He replied, puffing. It just made Francesco’s laugh louder.
“She knows the best car when she sees it! Too bad she still hasn’t realized who the best driver is.” He said again, winking. Turning around again, he began putting the cutlery in the sink for it to be washed later on. But before Lighting could make his leave, knowing he wouldn’t let him help clean up, he got his attention back again.
“So, when the selfie?”
“I can take a picture of you doing housework right now, if you want!” Lightning bantered.
“I’m sure she loves men who do some chores in the house! Tell me, how many do you do?” Francesco replied, with a wide gesture with his arms. Lighting’s face shone bright red again.
“We don’t even live together!” He quickly opened his phone’s camera and got a shot of Francesco with his hands in the sink, almost dying of laughter at the friend’s reaction. “There you go! I will give this picture to the press for the whole world to see! ‘Francesco Bernoulli’ as a maid will be the next F1 meme, mark my words!”
“Then I’ll give them the shot we have of you losing to me!” Francesco got his own phone from the back pocket of his trousers, browsing through his photos to see if he could find it, eventually giving up when it was too back in time.
“That’s old history! And the whole Prix was a flop!” Lightning nimbly replied, putting his phone away and watching his friend do the same.
He knew he wasn’t going to give that picture to anybody, but it was fun to tease every now and then. Just another thing to hide from Sally, along with the card. He tried:
“Can I help you clean up?” Francesco made a gesture with his hand he didn’t really understand, and everything he got was that he was pointing him to the door.
“You’re a guest. Don’t.”
He tried to convince him, but he was starting to get a bit sick of the cramped place.
So eventually, he made his way to the door.
“Alright, I’ll be going. If you have some time, pass by Radiator Springs one of these days? I can teach you how to drive on dirt.”
Francesco got closer to him to bid him goodbye with a handshake.
“I’ll see if I fit it in my schedule. No Number 1 on the sand though. It doesn’t do well on it, and the components and suspensions went haywire last time so the engineers made me promise to not do that again.”
“I see.” He said with a smile. “See you, then. When you’ll come, I’ll let you have one of our traditional dishes.”
“I’d love to, Lightning!” He replied with an even wider smile, as Lightning opened the door.
“Goodbye!” He said, leaving Francesco behind waving at him and walking out of the now almost deserted pits. As he was heading back towards his car, he was thinking what he might make for Francesco. It had to rival that dish, which was hard to beat in itself, but he was just starting to brainstorm for ideas, a good one would come.
An illumination came to his mind as he sat on the driver’s seat, and he quickly pulled up the notes on his phone. He wrote down a quick grocery list.
He’d need potatoes, butter, sour cream… he could remember a bit of pepper, then a bunch of bacon strips, cheddar cheese he should ask Flo, then onions… that was everything he could get from the top of his head, maybe something was missing but surely Flo or Sally would point it out to him. Still, he could already see the recipe popping up in his mind. He started the engine of the car, with a satisfactory smile.
Francesco would have the best casserole ever.