There was grumbling at the station
The news had reached the men
That their favourite cook, Asian
Jack, had received the DCM.
The ringer called the foreman
And demanded a fair hearing.
“Bring back Asian Jack,” he said,
“Or there’ll be no further shearing.”
The foreman stared at the mob
Of querulous angry men
Who stood beside a bleating flock
Of unshorn in their pen.
There was Blue, Curly
Mick the Greek and Hairy
Jim, Slug, Macca, Iron Pete
And a bloke called Cassowary.
And behind them all,
Leaning on his heinie
Was a massive man who
Ironically was known as Tiny.
He was six foot eight around his
Chest: no-one knew his height,
Arms cut from mulga wood
And fists to stop a fight.
He always wore a dopey smile
Beset by missing teeth.
Eyebrows grew like mallee
Scrub, with manic eyes beneath.
Tales of Tiny’s might and power
Had spread across the plains
At open campfires or when
Sheltering from monsoon rains.
Twas said he’d downed a buffalo
Once, with a single mighty punch
Threw it on the glowing embers,
Finished it off for lunch.
Tackling brumbies in high
Country, knocking down a barn,
Catching roos for outback stews
Occupied many a yarn.
No-one knew if these tales
Were either false or true:
One truth was the mere sight
Of him struck terror into you.
The foreman knew of Tiny
(Who, though seated, cast
A shadow as dark as night
And equally as vast)
So he thought it diplomatic
To be peaceful, not defiant
Lest he rouse the passions
Of the volatile giant.
“Gentlemen,” he said,
“I understand your rant,
But simple fact is the cost
Of Jack was exorbitant.
Budgetary constraints you see,
I hope you understand.
We have to stick with tried
And true when working on the land.
Asian Jack simply used
Too many ingredients.
We just couldn’t afford them.
It’s only dollars and cents.
Now there’s bully beef,
Legs of roasted lamb,
And for dessert there’s always
Damper spread with jam.
Good solid tucker
Fit for the working man.
A full plate for every mate
To eat as much as he can.”
The foreman finished speaking
And looked for some reply
But it seemed the earth had stopped
Beneath the open sky.
The sun shone, the men
Stood, and no-one said a word.
A breeze caught the leaves of a
Eucalypt. Then Tiny stirred.
He was a colossus
Who blacked out the sun.
He moved towards the foreman
Who thought he ought to run.
Tiny stopped in front of him
And broadened his usual grin.
The foreman quivered when Tiny
Raised a hand and scratched his chin.
No-one moved when he said
“We appreciate your candour,
Mr Foreman, but the fact is:
We like our coriander.
Hoisin and oyster sauces
Soups – udon, ramen,
Yakitori or poke bowls
Are good tucker when you’re farmin’.
Try extra virgin olive oil
On your beef carpaccio
And no-one eats damper
When there’s fresh sourdough.
You should know Australian
Cuisine has moved on
And meals of meat and
Three veggies have long gone.
So we don’t wanna hear no more
Of your bully beef malarkey
When Asian Jack serves up
Miso and shitake.
So, Mr Foreman, we
Appreciate your co-operation
In resolving this difference
In favour of our gustation.”
There was movement at the station
As the moon rose in the east
Odours from the kitchen said
There’d be a magnificent feast.
Asian Jack in chef’s hat
Emerged with steaming plates
“Pork spare ribs are on
Tonight, so eat up all me mates!”
There was a clamour and a clatter
As the men scoffed all the food
And the stars shone bright
Above the happy mood
Tiny sat in the middle of the
Mob, his grin as big as the moon
And he waved at the foreman as he
Licked the coriander from his spoon.
The foreman and the ringer
Sat with sated smiles,
And stared into the night which
Spread for miles and miles.
