Markets 
Max Benaud, 34, runs an old butcher’s shop in rural NSW that he bought with his mate, lamb farmer Wal Stranger, 30. But their paddock-to-plate dream would be interrupted by a shattering diagnosis.
MAX: Wal and I met in 2019 in Sydney working in export sales for a Japanese company that owns abattoirs. I thought “Aussie farmer” straight away: he spoke in a certain way. If I said, “Mate, it’s raining outside,” he’d say, “True”. Everything was “True” this and “True” that. I’m from the NSW Southern Highlands. Both of us were country kids working in an office; Wal knew that he needed to understand the complete supply chain from farm to finished product before diving into the family farm.
We got into the habit of having a beer every afternoon at the pub downstairs from the office. That’s where the dream came from – “Mate, you’ve got a farm and I’m a butcher: let’s make something happen” – but it took a little while.
In 2022, the old butcher’s shop in Canowindra [in central west NSW] came up for sale and we got it at auction for a reasonable price. I went to live in Canowindra while we got set up – the long-term goal was to run the business from the city – but then I met my partner, Jess, in the main street one day and decided to stay. And then, a couple of months later, I got sick. The diagnosis was B-cell acute lymphoma. Wal was the first person I called walking out of the hospital. I said, “Mate, I’ve got cancer and I’m starting treatment next week.” He said, “What do you need?”
For the first month of my treatment, while I was in hospital in Orange, Wal helped run the shop. One time, when Jess was away, Wal and his partner, Indie, even washed my clothes and brought them back to me, all folded nice.
On weekends, they’d drive for an hour to come visit me. We’d sit in the sun and talk. Wal knew I loved to have a yarn about the business and he’d bring me stuff to do. He’d ask, “What can we do to help?” At times, what most of us blokes need is a friendly ear. I’ve been in remission for two years now, but we still like a chat on a milk crate behind the shop.
We talk a lot about the business but also about our families, and we’ll check in on each other’s mental health. We wouldn’t openly call it anxiety or depression but, as we get older in life and have more roles and responsibilities, we share the burden.
We argue about food. After a 14-hour day in the shop, I’d ask him what he wanted to do about dinner. This was when we lived together for a short time. He’d say, “Do ya want baked beans on toast?” I’d say, “F— no, I don’t want baked beans on toast! I want a steak!”
Our music tastes differ. At Christmas, I’ll be in the shop at 2am getting the orders ready, slowly waking up, and Wal will come in with a dance-banger screaming from a Bluetooth speaker like it’s a party. I’m like, “Mate, it’s the middle or the night!” I prefer a motivational podcast.
The happiest I’ve ever seen him? On his wedding day this year at Indie’s beautiful family farm in Yass; I was one of the groomsmen.
Wal is the true definition of an Aussie mate. I feel blessed to have had him by my side as I went through the toughest experience of my life.
WAL: I couldn’t read Maxxy at all when I first met him. He was well-dressed, with his hair combed to the side; he wore reading glasses and a laptop bag over his shoulder. He looked a very straighty-180, corporate type. I’d never have picked him for a butcher.
It was only when we first had a yarn that I knew we were gonna get on. As soon as we started talking about meat or livestock, you couldn’t shut us up. And he’d never say no to a beer.
We were two blokes of the same age from completely opposite ends of the supply chain – me livestock, him production – who knew we could build some sort of paddock-to-plate story. We just didn’t know exactly what until the butcher’s came up for sale.
We were very conscious of the fact there are more butcher’s shops in rural areas closing than opening, but we thought, “Ah, bugger it, let’s put in a bid.” And Max really liked the area.
He was working stupid hours leading up to the opening. That’s what annoys me about him, the way he pushes himself past the limit. There’s no middle gear. Nobody could see the lump growing under his chin because he had a huge beard.
Finding out he had stage three cancer was obviously a complete shock, but I adopted a positive mindset. I said, “Righto, what’s the next step? You’re young: it’s just a blip.” I was probably a bit delusional.
Initially, we weren’t sure whether it had gotten into his spinal cord or bone marrow. I didn’t want to blow smoke up his arse – we had to be realistic, to a point – but I genuinely did believe that, with treatment, he had a good shot. Easy to say in hindsight. He was scared, for sure. He told me, “I’m not ready to die yet, Wal.”
It was grim. He was as pale as a ghost and lost all his hair. We still managed to be tongue-in-cheek about it all, though. It’s a pretty stereotypical Aussie friendship where you can take the piss out of everything.
He’s pretty tough. He went through a lot as a teen and started his apprenticeship at just 15. It forced him to grow up quickly; he’s very independent. He’s tenacious and passionate, values that I feel are very hard to come by in our generation. When people talk about their love language, his would definitely be acts of service.
Me and Max can connect on a deeper level and talk about stuff outside of work. Neither of us has ever spat the dummy and had to cool off for a couple of days. He’s opened the door on a lot of that motivational podcast stuff. It can be pretty intense stuff at 3am in the morning when you’re working!
Yes, he’s taught me how to make sausages, but I’m terrible at it, uncoordinated. It’s an art. There’s a reason why butchery is a four-year trade. In any case, I was always going to be dragged back to the farm, where I can add more value.
Max is a lot more of a foodie than me. I just treat food as fuel. I’ll smash four cans of tuna on toast, but Max gets right into it. He’s opened my eyes to a thousand different marinades and rubs.
Get the best of Good Weekend delivered to your inbox every Saturday morning. Sign up for our newsletter.
More from Good Weekend:
Stephen Lacey – Zealous cyclist, keen student of design and style, and purveyor of fine drinking experiences. Once stepped into the ring with a man of the cloth and copped a cracked rib for his trouble – all in the name of getting the story, of course.Connect via X or email.From our partners
Read the full article here
