Zane and another camera guy were buzzing around me, watching me as I snipped off the plastic tie holding a small cord of cherry wood together and selected a piece.
"Whoa, whoa! You can't burn that in here!" Gunnar exclaimed, running over.
"I need it for my dish," I told him. "You want a viral dessert, don't you?"
"You're going to burn the tower down!"
"No I won't," I scoffed.
He glared at me then said, "Let me talk to Jack."
I was antsy waiting for Jack. Everything needed to be timed perfectly. I needed that man to hurry up!
When Jack finally sauntered over to my workstation, he smirked when he saw my fire setup.
"So tell me, Mr. Big Shot Tower owner, is it going to set off the alarms if I make smoke in here?"
"Are you actually making your own fire?" he asked, a smile playing around his mouth.
"She can't burn that in here," Gunnar said.
Jack looked up at the massive ducts on the ceiling.
"We have a robust air-handling system," he said. "It should be fine."
Gunnar shook his head. "The last thing we need is for the sprinklers to go off. I cannot afford any setbacks."
"I need the smoke," I told them. I was not compromising on my dessert.
"Why don't you use the cool smoke gun?" Gunnar asked.
"I need the richness of the charred wood and bacon. It's like the difference between barbeque from a smoker and barbeque chicken made from a sauce packet and a crock pot."
"Maybe she can light it outside and bring the embers inside in the bowl of the smoker," Jack suggested.
I scowled. "I guess I'll have to."
"Come on. I'll help you," Jack said.
"I'm blaming you if my dessert fails," I said.
Jack smiled and picked up my wood, bacon, and equipment.
"I look crazy!" I complained as I stood outside in front of the tower. The drunk Santa was slumped against the wall, and he waved at me. At least it wasn't the same creepy Santa from the mall.
"Trust me, this is one of the least strange things happening in New York City right now," Jack said. "Do you need help?" He gestured to the pan that I was going to use to keep the wood from burning the sidewalk.
"I can light a fire," I snapped.
"You're feisty when you're angry."
The wood had started to burn. I laid the pieces of bacon on a metal grill over it. The cameramen panned around the fire while Jack and I watched.
The bacon had started to cook. I put the charred pieces in the smoker then hacked off some embers into the tempered glass flask that attached to the smoke gun.
I left Jack to put out the fire and raced back upstairs to finish my dessert.
Nina, bless her, babysat my embers while I assembled my skewers. I flash fried the perfectly ripened pears and the breaded cinnamon- and nutmeg-infused apples. Then I skewered the fruit, the various cheeses, and gooey pieces of honeycomb. Finally, I drizzled the spiced wine reduction on the skewers and topped each plate with a delicate sugar spire and used the smoking gun to pump bacon and wood smoke under each one.
