There are murder mysteries. Whodunnit. Then there’s this: The blame game. A huge vat of chilli sauce ended up gunge-ing someone who was in my car on her way to help work at a festival we were catering. Liters of hot peppers, all fluid and runny and delicious, coated this poor woman’s entire head, shoulders and soul. My car absolutely ruined. The passenger next to her, our head chef, and passenger next to me (our manager) and myself, all stain-free. It’s a situation that could have been avoided, and whilst I don’t want to point any fingers, I also absolutely want to point fingers and unpick who is the real culprit here. It happened as I was going over a speedbump on a residential road in Clapton, on my way to pick up a 5th passenger, and on our way to Greenwich for the day’s event.
It was like a scene from a slasher-horror-gore fest. The sauce being a vibrant orange didn’t help. I’ve never been so repelled by a condiment that has served me so much joy throughout my life – my Father’s very own recipe dating back 32 years. That sauce has accompanied thousands of meals I have consumed, and right now I cannot even bring myself to look at it. It’s in the dog-house for me. Anyway, let’s get to it: Who’s to blame for this fiery fiasco?
Me
I feel like I am always to blame for things, so this is a natural starting point. I was the one driving. I have held a license for 19 years and even though the speedbump wasn’t marked on the road, I should have known better. I should have paid more attention, especially knowing I was couriering precious cargo. I helped load up the trunk of the SUV, and in my vast years of experience catering, made a dumb decision to put the chilli sauce on top of other things, when it could have been safely cushioned at the bottom of the pile, suffocating, unable to express its inner volcanic eruption. I mostly blame me. However…
Hackney Council
Lord, do I hate you. It’s been long-running hatred, spewing decades. You’re so quick to fine everyone over everything, and collect tonnes of money from businesses and locals, but neglect to mark your roads and speedbumps accordingly. Who, on a very bright summer’s day, can see the curve rising on the road without the white outlines? Should I watch the ground whilst behind the wheel, or keep my peripherals centred like any good driver would instead? You done fucked up, HC. But perhaps not nearly as bad as…
Head Chef Mahir
First of all, I love you bro. But let’s not mess around, you packed that chilli sauce and crucially, you did not put the lid on tightly. We were bringing over raw onions, pickles, meat –a loose lid on any of these would have been forgivable. The car would smell but that would pass, you know? But chilli sauce? You need to straitjacket that Bronson-style. Then clingfilm it on top for good measure. Then place it in a safe. And place that safe in Fort Knox. And finally provide Fort Knox diplomatic immunity. These are the basic steps you neglected. And a poor woman paid the price. Though…
Lauren, the victim
It’s always fashionable to blame the victim. Men tend to excel in it. Lauren, why did you take the job? You could have said no. But you wanted the money. Your greed cost you, Lauren. You could have avoided the most intense post-gunge shower of your life, but instead, on Sunday at 12pm we were all cleaning up the mess whilst parked outside your friend’s flat when you had to hose yourself down. I jest, none of this is your fault, and I’m very sorry and embarrassed by the whole affair. You took it like an absolute champ, and honestly, your day job as a nurse has probably exposed you to a litany of unsavoury fluids needing cleaning up. So, if it had to happen to anyone, best it happened to someone so durable, forgiving, and good-natured. You even came back in the car after and did the whole shift. What a hero, I salute you. How were you to know that our journey would have a last-minute detour in Clapton to pick up the evil Marcella…
Marcella
Marce (as you prefer to be called) – why did you have to work the festival? You’re our employee and we didn’t need you in on Sunday for this, but you were going to go help another vendor instead. You live in West London but you had to stay in Clapton at your boyfriend’s the night before, didn’t you? If you hadn’t, you would have made your own way to Greenwich, and we wouldn’t have offered to pick you up on the way. Truthfully, go get yours girl. Make your money. Work extra shifts and get that festival dough. I have no qualms. I just wish you hadn’t text Georgie asking for a lift…
Georgie
Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. You must stop trying to please everyone! Texting Marce on the morning of the gig and asking her if she needs a lift when we have a car full of people and things was an unnecessary act of kindness. Time is money, people! We were already running late and any pivoting from our plans would have made us later anyway. The resulting burst of chilli sauce everywhere was obviously something none of us anticipated. But even still, you probably shouldn’t have asked me if it’s ok if we pick Marce up on the way, because what would I have responded with other than “Sure”. I too always want to please my team, so there was only ever going to be one answer. Now, I think about it I’m edging back to blaming myself for not being assertive enough. I guess I get it from my father…
Father
Why, oh why, did you have to create a chilli sauce so smooth, so silky, so bright, so flavoursome, and so, so hard to remove from a car’s fabric and interiors? Did you not ever anticipate that somewhere down the line, specifically 32 years later, your then 5-year-old son would be carrying it across the Thames for a Slow Jamz event? Also, that part about you not being assertive is hilarious because it couldn’t be any further from the truth – though you have certainly mellowed in your latter years, which feels like a gift from God…
God
God, why do you smite me so? I hate cars and love this stupid Volvo. Ever since I purchased it it has caused me nothing but pain and expense. Do you not want me to have nice things, God? Am I destined to have a car soaked in chilli sauce? Is this a funny game to you, God? Is it boring up there in Heaven? Are you tired of gifting billionaires and privileged white people all your bountiful pleasures, and wanted to make this Turkish man lose his mind? Well, you did it, dude. Well done. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.
So, there it is. A list of culprits and I can’t help but blame myself (and Mahir). In all honesty, it was a funny, bonding experience for us all. And it made me decide that maybe festival work isn’t for me. But if the money’s right, hit us up. We take this catering shit seriously. Weddings, funerals, private parties. Just don’t ask for chilli sauce, I beg.