Grease

Bourke is a long way from England.

It's a long way from everywhere except North Bourke which is where we ended up one night by dint of our usual random navigation technique. It's said to be the gateway to Australia's outback, everything beyond is "back of Burke".

The temperature was in the mid forties, so we decided to forgo the pleasures of sleeping under canvas that evening for the hardship of an air-conditioned guesthouse room. The owners apologised for the lack of meal service, they were hosting a convention at the time and were overstretched as it was, but they could order something from the Cafe about a block away if we liked, or alternatively we could walk there in the cool of the evening.

As the temperature slowly descended below the forty five degrees it had hovered round during the day, to a much more comfortable forty three or so, we wandered around to the sort of Country Cafe in which every visible surface was covered in green marble laminex lightly dusted with a preserving cover of condensed Chicko Roll. The fryer looked large enough to consume the entire oil ration of a third world country and featured a galvanized hood with a faded menu stuck to it with sticky tape that had been there so long it was the colour of shellac.

There wasn't a thing on it, from the battered savs to the dim sims in breadcrumbs, that seemed matched to the desire of our sophisticated palettes, so we retired to the pub next door to consider our next plan.

Fortunately, the pub had a small but inviting menu offering a choice of chicken and salad or steak and salad.

We ordered the steak, paying for it at the bar.

"Better take a seat, it'll be about forty minutes.

We get it all done at the Cafe next door".