And so to the first tee at Royal Queensland for moving day, Saturday, in this Australian PGA Championship, and we’re out to count the chefs that The Chef, Min Woo Lee, can mobilise into his Chef Army for his penultimate round in the $2.5 million DP World Tour tourney.

And the answer is: one.

There is one chef, along with The Chef, and that chef is his mum, decked out in a white hat and sponsor’s product, that being the groovy line of Lulumon clothing.  

And that's the extent of the Chef Army, at least here today in Brisbane town.

What’s doing, local chefs? Is there a strike? Is there a convention? Was a time not that long ago, indeed it was at the Australian Open in 2023, a week after Chef won the PGA at this very RQ, that actual chefs turned up in their full chef kit, as if they were straight off a shift at a well-reviewed “be-seen” eatery with a Michelin hat.

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But that was then and this is now, sports fans, and today at Royal Queensland, instead of chefs there’s a healthy gallery of locals decked out in what you could call “Queensland casual”, that being so relaxed they’re one above nude. Nobody in the world does relaxed casual better than sub-tropical Queenslanders, it is stone fact.

And we are away.

Chef birdies the first with a 15-foot putt and there’s healthy and appreciative applause. We move over to the second tee and Chef smokes driver, a laser beam, his tempo smooth, connection pure, a strike of preternatural power. At least that’s how it appears to a man near me who exclaims softly, “Faaarrrrk.”

A 10-footer shaves it on the second, a 15-footer shaves it on the third. A 30-footer from the front of the fourth hole rolls up a swale to the back tier and settles to tap-in. And you think: one-putts are all for these people. Infact, the best player is effectively the best one-putter.

Min Woo Lee carves his short-iron second shot on the par-4 fifth hole at Royal Queensland. PHOTO: Getty Images

To go on a heater up the leaderboard, they must one putt. If they miss the green, to maintain parity they must one-putt. Cameron Smith did it on Friday. He shot 69 because he made 10 one-putts. That’s 26 putts, that's 1.44 per hole. Putt like that and you can shoot two-under while playing like shit.

When Smith’s short game deserted him – once as unthinkable as Jimi Hendrix stuffing up the riff of “Voodoo Child” – and he was still playing like shit, that was Smith, done and done, out the back door, cooked, and not in a good way as if by The Chef.  If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

And so on.


Onto the fifth and Lee smashes driver a long way away. A man standing with five mates on the rope mid-fairway watches it soar over his head before watching the ball roll out an unfathomable distance.

He turns to his pals and says: “Right. Grog time?” And there is no argument from his people, it is 10:22am, and we are not one to judge.    

Then the tournament stops because there is lightning and wind and rain, the radar app on the phone like the colour pallete of drunk Jackson Pollock. 

We catch up with Chef again on the green at nine, which he birdies with a two-putt from off the green. On 10 he pumps driver long, hits the pin with his approach, makes the six foot bird. There's a fist bump with his caddie. There's a confident stride to the next tee. There's a "Go Woozie" from the people.

 

 

He birdies 12. He gets to 13-under and leads the tournament. The burgeoning Chef Army is beery and cheery. None of them are in white hats, however, even mum's taken hers off. Yet if uniform standards are lax in this man's Chef Army, his soldiers remain in good voice for their man.

Then he hooks one into the trees. He asks a rules official if his ball is on the path, and is told, "No. Not even close." He says, "thankyou" - and cracks a mid-iron low and drawing and hard, out to the front of the green. You couldn't hit the shot in your dreams. the people are in awe.

The bogey he makes from there, not so much.

He hooks again on 15, frightens people. From a dud lie he sees a passage through a forested path that no-one else can. He threads it through, and the Army exults like those toy things looking at "The Claw" in Toy Story. There follows a dud, if fighting, par-five.

And so we're into the Party Hole, with its thumping bass beats and coliseum feel. It's going on 4pm and some of the locals have been here since 10:30. The Chef hits the green above the hole, and nurdles his putt to tap-in.

But the hero of this passage is the Kiwi, Dan Hillier.

 

 

After a lofted sand-extraction, Hillier's ball settles on the slope. Then, as he lines up his putt and is about to pull the trigger, someone puts "Sweet Caroline" on the speakers. And it's all anyone can do not to sing, Hillier included.

He backs away, puts his arms out and sings along with everyone there, all the fans, all the golfers, the caddies, volunteers, the journo gibbering this stuff, all of us, belting out the Neil Diamond classic, Sweeeeet Caroline, oh-oh-oh, and so on, for the next several moments. It is human gold.

When Hillier slides in the downhill 12-footer for par, the gallery erupts and for the next several moments Hillier is as popular as Merv Hughes after catching Viv Richards in front of Bay 13.

Maybe not that popular.

But popular, man. Popular.

 

 

And so we're onto 18 and The Chef makes a par and writes down four-under 67, to sit two shots behind the leaders. He left a couple out there. He played some stupendous golf shots. and the kids watching, will never forget the whip-crack of his irons on the Callaway golf ball.

In short, the man is box office - whether his Army wears the uniform or not.