The next race weekend was at the Nürburgring in Germany. I arrived Thursday with a plan and a shopping list.
Lawrence had arranged for us to rent a large apartment near the track with a proper kitchen—much better than hotel accommodations. When I told him I needed to cook for the entire Prema team, he'd been supportive but curious.
"You're really doing this? Cooking for twenty-five people before a race weekend?"
"I made a bet. Besides, it'll be relaxing. Better than sitting around being nervous about qualifying."
"Relaxing? Cooking for twenty-five people?"
"It's just scaled-up meal prep. Same techniques, bigger quantities."
[Friday Morning: Shopping Trip]
I dragged Lando along to a local market, explaining what I needed. "We're making proper Italian food. Carbonara, saltimbocca, risotto, tiramisu."
"You're actually serious about this." Lando looked at the shopping list. "Guanciale, pecorino, veal, marsala wine... this is a lot."
"It's called proving a point."
"Against a restaurant that no one thought was good anyway?"
"Against the claim that I can't cook better. Which I can."
We spent an hour selecting ingredients—proper pecorino romano, fresh guanciale from an Italian butcher, quality veal, fresh herbs, good marsala wine, the best espresso for tiramisu.
"This is the most domestic I've ever seen a racing driver," Lando observed, carrying bags. "Does George Russell shop for ingredients before race weekends?"
"George Russell probably has people who cook for him."
"And you just... do this yourself?"
"It's meditative. Plus I actually enjoy cooking. Is that so weird?"
"For a fourteen-year-old F3 driver? Yes. But also kind of cool in a strange way."
[Lando: Amused but impressed]
[Your multidimensional personality continues surprising people]
Friday evening, after free practice where I'd qualified a respectable seventh, I started cooking. The Prema team would arrive at 7 PM for dinner.
The apartment's kitchen was good—not professional grade but adequate. I'd prepped everything during the afternoon, organized ingredients, planned timing for each dish to be ready simultaneously.
6 PM: Started the tiramisu—needed time to set in the fridge. Espresso-soaked savoigrini, mascarpone cream, cocoa dusting. The familiar process was calming.
6:30 PM: Began the saltimbocca—veal pounded thin, prosciutto, sage, marsala sauce. The smell of sage browning in butter filled the apartment.
7 PM: Risotto starting—this would be timed to finish exactly when people sat down. Twenty-five servings meant a huge pot, constant stirring, perfect attention.
Chloe was video-calling, watching me cook. "You look stressed."
"I'm not stressed. I'm focused."
"You're cooking for your entire race team. That's stressful."
"Cooking isn't stressful. Racing is stressful. This is just cooking."
The doorbell rang. The team was arriving.
[Show time]
René Rosin walked in first, followed by mechanics, engineers, drivers. The entire Prema operation filed into the apartment, looking skeptical but intrigued.
"Something smells incredible," Marco said immediately. "That's... that's sage and butter. Real Italian cooking smell."
"Sit down," I directed. "Food's almost ready."
Raffaele looked around the kitchen—organized chaos, multiple dishes in various stages of completion, me moving between stations with practiced efficiency.
"You're actually cooking. Really cooking. Not just heating things up."
"I told you I could cook."
Lando was helping plate—I'd recruited him as kitchen assistant. "He's been cooking for hours. I've been watching. It's actually impressive in a bizarre way."
The carbonara went out first—perfectly creamy sauce, no cream, just eggs and pasta water creating silk around perfectly cooked spaghetti, crispy guanciale pieces, generous pecorino, cracked black pepper.
The table went silent. Then Marco took a bite.
"Madonna," he whispered. "This is... this is real carbonara. Roman style. Perfect."
Other Italian team members tasted, and the reaction was unanimous—this was authentic, properly executed, restaurant-quality.
"You made this?" René asked, genuinely surprised. "No shortcuts, no cream, just proper technique?"
"Just proper technique."
The saltimbocca came next—tender veal with crispy prosciutto, sage butter sauce, perfectly seasoned. Then the risotto—al dente rice, creamy consistency, balanced flavors.
Conversation stopped. Everyone was eating, occasionally making appreciative noises, but mostly just focused on the food.
[Team reaction: Genuine surprise]
[Expectations exceeded significantly]
[Respect being earned in unexpected way]
Halfway through the meal, Louis Delétraz—the championship leader from a different team—showed up. Raffaele had invited him, curious about what the fuss was about.
"You're the fourteen-year-old everyone's talking about," Louis said. "The one who's supposedly cooking restaurant-quality Italian food?"
"Try it yourself."
Louis sat, skeptical. Tasted the carbonara. His eyebrows rose. Tried the saltimbocca. Looked at me with new assessment.
"This is professional level. Where did you train?"
"Montreal. Michelin-starred chef named Beaumont. Six years of training."
"Six years. You're fourteen. You started at eight?"
"Yes."
"While also racing karts competitively?"
"Yes."
Louis shook his head. "You're either very talented or very strange."
"I get that a lot."
[Louis Delétraz: Respect earned off-track]
[Reputation spreading beyond just racing]
[Multi-dimensional identity forming]
The tiramisu came out last—perfectly layered, balanced sweetness, proper espresso flavor, not too heavy.
Marco actually looked emotional. "My nonna made tiramisu like this. Perfect balance. Not too sweet. This is... this is home cooking, but better."
René stood, raising his wine glass. "Lance. You said you could cook better than that restaurant. You were right. This is significantly better. You've impressed everyone here tonight."
"Thank you."
"But more importantly—you did this the day before qualifying, while also being a competitive racing driver, at fourteen years old. That's remarkable."
Raffaele added, "Most drivers at your age are playing video games and stressing about racing. You're in the kitchen making perfect carbonara. I don't understand you, but I respect it."
[Mission accomplished: Proved cooking skills]
[Team bonding achieved]
["Pit Lane Chef" nickname born]
The evening became relaxed, casual. People asked questions about cooking, about training with Chef Beaumont, about balancing racing and culinary skills. The barrier between "young driver" and "team" dissolved—I was just another person, someone with skills beyond driving.
Lando pulled me aside while helping clean up. "That was actually really cool. You just earned respect from everyone in a completely unexpected way."
"It was just cooking."
"It wasn't 'just' anything. You showed them you're more than a race car driver. You're a person with depth, skills, interests. That matters." He paused. "Also, that carbonara was genuinely incredible. Teach me sometime?"
"You want cooking lessons?"
"Why not? If it's as relaxing as you claim, maybe it'll help with race stress."
[Lando: Interested in learning]
[Bonding opportunity created]
[Friendship deepening through shared interest]
Saturday qualifying went well—I was relaxed, focused, unburdened by the nervous energy that usually preceded qualifying. The cooking had been meditative, exactly as I'd claimed.
Qualified fifth. My best F3 qualifying yet.
Lando qualified eighth. Raffaele tenth. George Russell on pole, naturally. Louis second.
"You cooked last night and qualified fifth?" Thomas marveled, reviewing the data. "Whatever you did, keep doing it. Your lap was clean, confident, no hesitation."
"Told you cooking was relaxing."
"I thought you were joking. Apparently not."
[Pre-race mental state: Excellent]
[Cooking as performance enhancer confirmed]
The race was Sunday afternoon. Starting fifth, I had a clear shot at a podium if things went well. The pressure was there but manageable—my Mental Fortress skill keeping anxiety controlled.
The start was crucial. I got a good launch, held fifth through turn one. George led from pole, Louis second, a Dutch driver third, British driver fourth, me fifth.
[Lap 1: P5]
[Running in podium range]
[This is the best race position I've had]
The opening laps were about maintaining position and learning the pace of the leaders. George was pulling away—he was just on another level. But second through fifth were close, constantly fighting.
Lap eight, I got a better exit from turn twelve than the driver in fourth. Pulled alongside down the straight, made the pass into turn one.
Fourth place. One position from podium.
[P4: Best race position yet]
[Podium in sight]
[Twelve laps remaining]
The driver in third was defending hard, but I was faster on tire management. My Tire Management skill showed his fronts fading while mine were still strong. I just needed patience.
Lap fifteen, he made a small mistake—ran slightly wide in turn three. I stayed tight, got better exit, pulled alongside.
We raced side-by-side through turn four and five. My positioning was perfect—Racecraft Genius showing me exactly where to place the car. Into turn six, I completed the pass.
Third place. Podium position.
[P3: PODIUM!]
[Five laps remaining]
[Hold this position]
The final laps were about perfect execution. No mistakes, consistent pace, defending when the fourth-place driver tried to attack. My skills all working in concert—Consistency Master keeping my laps identical, Tire Management preserving grip, Mental Fortress managing pressure.
Crossed the line in third place.
Podium. First F3 podium.
[RACE COMPLETE: P3]
[PODIUM FINISH!]
[Points Earned: 15]
[Current Balance: 53 points]
George won, extending his championship lead. Louis was second. I was third. Lando had charged from eighth to sixth—also his best finish.
On the podium, standing on the third step with champagne and trophy, everything felt right. This wasn't luck or circumstance—this was earned through pace, racecraft, and consistency.
"Congratulations," Louis said, champagne dripping from his face. "Well-deserved podium. And the carbonara was excellent, by the way."
"Thanks on both counts."
George sprayed champagne over both of us from the top step. "The Pit Lane Chef gets a podium! That's going to be your nickname now, you know."
"Could be worse nicknames."
[Podium achieved]
[Nickname established: "Pit Lane Chef"]
[Multi-dimensional reputation growing]
In the paddock afterward, the Prema team was celebrating. René pulled me aside. "Excellent race. But more than that—last night's dinner, today's podium, the way you carry yourself. You're building something unique. A racing driver who cooks, who connects with the team, who performs under pressure. That's special."
"Thank you."
"Keep developing all of it. The racing, obviously. But also the cooking, the personality, the interests beyond driving. Those things will matter long-term."
[Team principal's wisdom]
[Multi-dimensional development encouraged]
[Foundation for future streaming/content creation being built]
That evening, Chloe called to congratulate me. "Podium! And the cooking thing worked! Everyone's talking about the Pit Lane Chef."
"People are calling me that?"
"It's all over the junior racing social media. Photos of you cooking, then photos of you on the podium. People love it." She grinned. "My brother, the racing chef. This is great scrapbook material."
"I just cooked dinner."
"You proved you're more than a racing driver. That matters. It makes you interesting, memorable, different from everyone else."
She was right. In a field of talented drivers all trying to reach F1, being multidimensional was valuable. Not just fast, but interesting. Not just skilled, but personable.
[Reputation evolving: Racing driver with personality]
[Seeds for future content creation planted]
[Chapter of "Pit Lane Chef era" beginning]
To be continued...