LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – MacGregor Literary is representing aphrodisiac cooking visionary and celebrated culinary innovator, ChefFed, effective immediately.
ChefFed, the chef who invented the Sex on the Table aphrodisiac culinary experience that has taken New York and Los Angeles by storm, is bringing his affection for deliciously alluring cuisine to the pages of 3 books.
“We are delighted to create foodporn magic with ChefFed,” reports Chip MacGregor, Founder, MacGregor Literary. “ChefFed is celebrated for his timeless pairing of senses and sensuality in the delivery of truly unique and memorable aphrodisiac cuisine experiences.”
After entirely selling out 500 events in a row in New York, ChefFed is currently entertaining with his aphrodisiac dining experience in Los Angeles.
“Chip with his team at MacGregor Literary hit the #1 spot on the New York Times bestseller list as a writer, as well as an agent and Chip secured around 1000 book deals. To create and collaborate with this gentleman and his team is humbling and challenging in equal parts.”
About MacGregor Literary, Inc.
MacGregor Literary provides quality, full-service representation to a diverse list of authors who want to write books that make a difference. MacGregor Literary assists authors in developing great ideas, expressing them through great writing, and supporting them with a great platform. The literary firm encourages authors to think strategically about their books as well as their careers, as it stays in-step with the changing rhythms of the publishing industry. For more information, visit
or follow @MacGregorLit on Twitter.
ChefFed’s Sex on the Table is an aphrodisiac cooking class and private dining affair that engages guests during both the cooking and dining process. ChefFed appeared on Food Network’s CHOPPED, Fox, E! News and he was written up in Cosmopolitan, Maxim, Time Out and many more. In September ChefFed relocated to Los Angeles, where he since introduced the west coast to his contemporary cooking style and the connection between food & love.
For more information on ChefFed, Sex on the Table and ChefFed’s Aphrodisiac Cooking Experiences visit
Follow ChefFed on Instagram or Twitter @TheChefFed
In Europe, chefs-in-training work in a restaurant for four days a week, and on the fifth day they attend their respective cooking schools. They receive pay for this training, which was just about enough for a beer after a 16-hour shift and a glass of champagne for the waitresses. The restaurant I picked for my education was merely an opening act on the world’s culinary stage. It was in an efficient four-star hotel located in a remote little town in the Swiss Alps. My hotel specialized in hosting conventions, and it was the ideal setting in which to learn the practical craft of cooking food, apart from the lofty culinary arts that we were learning in school. In my fourstar environment, little mistakes and failures were readily excused. The clientele were hardly in a place to notice – the corporate clients that found their way to the business retreat in our little mountain village were just happy for a getaway. Mainly mid-level management employees seeking escape from their strangling corporate careers, these business conventions were like a trip to Las Vegas – they were there to do business, have extramarital sex, smoke cigars, and couldn’t care less about the latest innovations of a superstar chef. And just like Vegas, what happened in our hotel, stayed in our hotel. Under these circumstances my executive chef was confident enough to let me work in all of the kitchen’s stations. I was granted access to go on an educational CrossFit parkour from the cold kitchen, to the sweaty entremetier station, to the freezing pastry department, and finally, to the fiery poissonnier and saucier – the holy grail of the culinary arts.
The hotel was located in a cullde- sac of a valley with lush green hills dotted with family farms like sprinkles on an ice cream cone, surrounded by a backdrop of the towering Swiss alps with a year-round snow pack. The mountains were so close to the village that the sun wouldn’t touch the rooftops of the farm village for three months in winter. We would see the sun light up the peaks surrounding us, but our skin remained untouched by its rays. Besides the corporate clients of our hotel, and the random ski tourist that would find their way to what seemed to be the end of the world, this village was inhabited by locals; dairy farmers and their wives, both with checkered shirts and weathered skin. Given the number in family names in the area, it was apparent that only three intermingling clans populated this end of the world. Everybody knew everybody. When I arrived, I was known as “the guy from Zurich”, and I made sure that everybody knew me within the first two weeks of my arrival. My random shenanigans, such as crashing my motor bike and leaving it at the scene for towing the next morning, helped to ensure they kept talking about me.
The culinary cravings of these Swiss locals share as many similarities to the offerings of fine dining, as the sun shares with the moon. Their mac n’ cheese is of the kind Americans have never seen: made with clover- seasoned goat cheese that had the aroma of spoiled milk. The next thing they loved was poached veal sausage with a side of mashed potatoes and veal roast with prunes – but this veal roast was made like bologna sausage. Smothered cow’s head with bacon and pieces of meat from animals too young to be a cow but too old to be a calf. Seasoned with glutamate, this is a maze of John Doe crap. And there was me: eager to be trained by a man who devoted the rest of his life to these three culinary sins: Meinolf. A tall German guy from Hamburg with an iron fist and with a warm heart. Meinolf is talented, humble, and a technically brilliant chef with a flair for teaching. And yet, he still had to cook veal roasts from unidentified cow victims twenty years ago, and to this day cooks the same three menu items. Needless to say, he’s never made a name for himself beyond the last cow stable that marked the mouth of the valley.
After Meinolf’s kitchen, I worked with teams that surrounded plating stations like heart surgeons around a patient. I cooked for kings, and I drank with stars. I had Frédy Girardet on speed dial, who at the time was considered the world’s best chef. I cooked for Michelin Stars alongside Benoît Violier, Girardet’s successor as the world’s best chef. I learned to cook the most deceptively simple red wine sauce with only three ingredients from Adolph Blockbergen, and I knew Eckart Witzigmann’s recipe for his legendary pintade filled with foie gras and truffles by heart. Surrounded by these great men at the age of 24, I absolutely believed that the earth’s axis lay where I stood. But in spite of working with these celebrated chefs and learning their secrets, from none of them have I learned lessons as natural, pristine, diverse and valuable as those that I had from Meinolf. Of all of the lessons I was to learn from him, one of them stuck with me for a lifetime: “Whatever you do, make sure you always cook with all your five senses”. To cook with all your five senses means to use your eyes, your ears, your hands, your nose and your taste buds as your assistants. In all my years of training with Meinolf he repeated this lesson like a buddhist’s mantra. However, little did I know that this lesson would ultimately unfold into a method that would provide direction for the rest of my career.
When was the last time you praised a restaurant for great tasting food? I believe that food is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to experiencing a meal at a restaurant. Every restaurant encounter starts with you and your mindset – life is a constant emotional roller-coaster that swings from 1 (“I’m going to shoot myself”) to 10 (“Damn, I love life”). However your personal Richter scale registers, informs the emotional costume you bring to a restaurant. From the moment you set foot in the establishment to the moment you leave, restaurants have one goal: to swing your internal Richter scale as high as possible. This journey starts with a friendly hello from a beautiful host; a personal welcome that foreshadows the tsunami of five sensual pleasures to come. Next, you notice the dimmed lights and mood-setting background music. The fresh flowers on the table remind you of spring; nature; vacation. You ease into the evening as the stress of the day washes away like high tide receding into the ocean. You are then introduced to the menu; your waiter might tell you a story about that little grass-fed piglet from the Hudson Valley that was turned into a roast by the firm hands of an artist with rugged looks but a fluffy heart. Your imagination paints a picture of lush grass blanketing rolling hills, with a tiny farm house with a red roof and yellow shutters dotting the highest peak. Just outside the farm there – there’s your happy pink piglet, smiling as the setting sun’s rays touch his nose. You want to take the piglet home to cuddle before you eat it – but for all you know, the chef might have just purchased that hypothetical piggy as a weekly special from Costco.
Not that it matters – your heart is now set on devouring that pork. Some of the dishes the waiter praises may trigger memories, which is one of the most powerful tools when it comes to food seduction. Maybe an entree brings up memories of what your grandmother made for you when you were sick, and now you’re nostalgic for your carefree and hopeful childhood. After the sales pitch, you’ve made a choice that was artfully guided by your server that includes an appetizer and an entree. As you wait for the first course, your appetite is stimulated by each tantalizing plate that passes by your table. Your appetizer is finally served – cuisine translated interpreted as art displayed on a porcelain canvas – as the smörgåsbord of aromas fly into perfect formation from a thousand different directions like birds in the fall. When you take your first bite, the crunchy outer layer gives way into an arrangement of textures and flavors. However, by the time these flavors, aromas, and textures have seduced your taste buds, you’ve long made a decision as to whether or not you like the restaurant. You started this journey bearing the emotions you were wearing on your sleeve, and were seduced into another frame of mind by the ambiance of the establishment, the demeanor of your server, and the culinary presentation. And yet, in spite of this, the majority of people leaving the restaurant on any given night claim that it was just the food that was “great”. I call bullshit. Food does not simply taste “great”. In the absence of the other four senses taste is irrelevant, no matter how much salt you use.
To prove my point, next time you make spaghetti, add some red food dye for a deep bloody color and add blue food dye to your sauce. Still think the food tastes “great” when your spaghetti resembles Mickey Mouse run through a pasta machine? You’ll be disgusted by the perfect plate of spaghetti for the sole reason that it looks gross. Typical of most young people, it took me years to embrace the full potential of Meinolf’s emphasis on cooking with five senses. The fact that the most valuable lesson I know was taught to me by a blue-collar chef, who distances himself from pointlessly artful displays of cooking, speaks volumes for my theory that being a chef is a craft. It takes countless hours in kitchens with fellow artists to transform the craft into art. I am grateful to have gone through my chef’s rite of passage in an obscure four-star hotel at the foot of Meinolf. To culture techniques before experience, provides a clear path for growth into a culinary artist – something I recommend every chef to pursue on the quest to becoming great.
When I finally realized that my eyes, my sense of touch, my ears, and my nose were an untapped resource, I felt like an idiot. It was as if I had been sitting in a row boat with five paddles, but only using one – no wonder I went in endless circles. But once I started incorporating textures, smells, beautiful color combinations and shapes, and evoking emotions and stories in my dishes, I started going down the road I was meant to travel: in the direction of seductive food.
I am immature. I am self-absorbed, I am demanding, I am a perfectionist and I am a maniac. In other words, I’m a chef. It doesn’t matter that my last 300 cover-shift was six years ago. Deep down inside of me there has always been, will always be a cocky bastard who happens to know the art of cooking.
It was the summer of 2010. I had just moved to New York and was invited to a trendy restaurant in the West Village. A friend of mine – who at the time was one of the only two people I knew in the city – invited me to a birthday party for a woman named Lilia: a thirty-something year old professional in the fashion industry whose eyes bespoke of Italian dolce vita, but whose mind ticked at a New York pace. At the time, I was a correspondent for Swiss Television, and broadcasting short feature stories on prominent Swiss people in the U.S. – but food had always been my passion. Unfortunately, as much as I loved working as a chef, hanging out with twenty-something year old students- cum-servers at the age of thirty was a wake-up call to grow up – so I decided to have a normal life with a 9-to-5 schedule and Sundays in bed. Cooking remained my biggest hobby – an obsession some would claim. I was on a perennial quest for the next kick of flavors, textures, smells and colors, all from my home kitchen. It was probably at that time where I realized that the craft of cooking, executed by millions of hobby cooks after a long day of work, is different from any culinary art that‘s executed at a restaurant. I enjoyed to be able to set foot in both worlds. Flawlessly executing a five-course Sunday dinner for my friends who were gracious enough to serve as guinea pigs has always been a relaxing activity for me.
In the end, I chose to be 15 minutes late. In New York, that means you land squarely between the early birds (“I had a meeting in this very exact neighborhood”) and the late crowd (“...and my cabbie didn’t even speak English!”). I knew less about New York, the American food revolution, and the citizens who fed that beast on a daily base, than I will forget in the next five years I would live there. It was a typical New York affair – where dinner was the price you pay to spend a night out with a fascinating, eclectic crowd of young professionals. There were twelve of us: eleven creative minds from all over the world – and then there was me. The unassuming Swiss citizen. I was fresh off the boat and green behind the ears. Far from being a brusque New Yorker, but increasingly distant from being a polite and organized Swiss. There was Angelo, the fashion designer from South Africa. To my Swiss ears, Angelo had an Italian accent – but that was probably because he shared a similar appetite for life with the hard-working Italian immigrants that paved roads and opened pizzerias in my Swiss lake-front hometown. He was sitting across from me, a position which did not encourage conversation. But in spite of this, I was drawn to the energetic vibes that this ageless man – with his artfully curated second-hand vintage outfit – was radiating. Angelo was speaking to women and men alike. He embraced every word, wrapping every syllable in a shiny piece of candy paper and delicately twisting the ends, as he arranged the sweets into sentences on the display of his conversation. He was a great listener, lending ordinary small talk the depth of a literary masterpiece by using wise words and soft demeanor. As a friend, Angelo would later be a crucial piece of the puzzle on my journey back to the chef’s world – even though he never once tasted my food, nor attended one of my cooking classes to come. Without Angelo’s story of rising from rags to riches – arriving with a few bucks in his pockets and a dream – and becoming a respected international fashion designer, I would not have learned the game of becoming a New Yorker. Half of it is just being a New Yorker, while the other half is pretending to be a New Yorker.
Next to me sat Adriana, a childhood friend from times long gone in Switzerland, who invited me to the ball. I had known Adriana for thirty years. But of all the guests that night, to me she was the most enigmatic. Adriana speaks with her hands, underlines her words with rolling eyes and she can silence a room with her animated storytelling. Her tale is the one of a talented circus performer who became a loving mother of two girls. She left the circus trailer to live out the American dream in a house with a mortgage and filled with gadgets – all paid for with maxed out credit cards – followed by the alltoo- common American theme of divorce and foreclosure. But when Adriana tells the story, it is as if Martin Scorsese hired an all-star cast to perform the tale of the only victim the American dream has seen – ever. I see Adriana as a performer who is beholden to the whims of the audience. It is as if she is standing in a circus arena from the moment she wakes up until the moment she goes to bed: on the spot, all the time. She is also the queen of fakers. Playing the part of a successful movie writer is her best character. She doesn’t blink or flinch when she is talking about the contacts she made in the movie business, how appreciated her script was by the producers, and how much money she’s going to make off of her art. For as long as I knew Adriana, her life has been a machiavellian plan to fake it until she makes it. Adriana didn’t have a job. Her sole income was irregular alimony checks from her divorced husband. Yet here she is, the same woman, making an entire restaurant believe that she is going to be receiving an Oscar for her life’s achievements. Her act alone is deserving of an Academy award. In my genuine, chocolate sweet Swiss naiveté I thought this whole thing with Adriana in a starring role of her own movie was ruthless. But I also couldn’t help but be intrigued by it.
Next to Adriana sat Amelia. She was a young comic designer from France whose youthful innocence had yet to be tested by the realities of New York. Amelia spent half the night outside the restaurant smoking, and the other half inside drinking. She seemed uninterested, superficial, and uncommitted, and was successful at portraying herself as unattractively as a beautiful woman possibly could. But then there were her eyes. Merely a pretty moth in her entire appearance, when Amelia’s eyes touched yours, it was as if a caterpillar finally broke out its cocoon as a butterfly spreading its wings. One moment she was a millennial, heavy-drinking idealist – exactly the type I ran from when I quit working as a chef – and then in a wink, a stunningly charismatic woman shining with a confidence that was deeply rooted in her heritage. Only in cultures with a legacy spanning thousands of years have I seen this deep knowing that everything will be fine. Amelia was capable of telling this story with a blink of an eye.
“So what do you do?”, Amelia asked. “I’m an aphrodisiac chef”, I replied. I ran with my story counting on the superficial confidence of a television reporter reading from a teleprompter. I just thought being a TV reporter wasn’t sexy enough for a French girl who left her hometown to make it in New York. Luckily, I wasn’t a virgin when it came to aphrodisiacs. When I enrolled in college in the mid nineties, I had already graduated from culinary school and had experience as a professional chef under my belt. Going back to college meant that all I had to impress my dates were my cooking skills, so I would invite them over for dinner – which was both romantic for them and economical for me. It was on these dates that I realized that lobster got me further down the baseline than steak. Years later, when my successful college dinners were just a memory, my editor assigned me to research the effects of everyday organic produce on your love life. Did you know that there are at least 107 fruits, vegetables, herbs, spices and protein choices that can affect the libido? This is how far my research went, and every bit of it is imprinted on my memory. Using this research in my quest to keep Amelia’s attention for a tiny bit longer, I went on about the orgasm- enhancing effects of mangos on women and explained why chickpeas have more superpowers than oysters ever will. I felt my confidence rise with every second I moved away from my true self – a television reporter from Switzerland – to an aphrodisiac chef in New York. And just as I raised the stakes by inviting Amelia to a private tasting of my aphrodisiac cuisine, I noticed it: the party had gone quiet. The horde of creative professionals that graced my first New York night out laid down their forks and knives as their overpriced chicken breasts remained untouched and their steaks from grass-fed cattle went cold. The entire group – Adriana, Angelo, Amelia and eight other birthday guests – were hanging on my every word. I have to say, even as a TV reporter had I never held a group so captive.
Amelia never followed up with my invitation, but Adriana offered to be my guinea pig for one night. In need of guidance to cover up my inexperience, I turned to an Indian cookbook with recipes that were supposed to have an effect on the libido of both men and women. I sourced ingredients from parts of New York with street signs in foreign languages and stores that sold ingredients I had never seen. I cooked for an entire day. I turned bland lentils into sweet pastries and spice pairings into explosions of flavor. Adriana savored every course. She even enjoyed the mushrooms – a food she despises. She stayed over that night. If it wasn’t for Angelo, who taught me that half of being a New Yorker is pretending to be a New Yorker; and Adriana, who gave an Oscar-worthy performance in front of my eyes while she ditched bill collectors calling her phone; and Amelia, whose eyes I thought were too mesmerizing to be held captive by a TV reporter, I’d have never embarked on this journey. The morning after Adriana stayed over I decided to quit my job and become an aphrodisiac chef. I started the Sex on the table cooking school, which became the coolest underground experience in New York. For three years we sold out every class, and hosted a total of 7,000 guests. None of the big-name chefs I surrounded myself with at a young age, no gaping wound from a broken knife sharpening steel, and no devastating feedback from a disgruntled customer would prepare me for the experiences I would go on to have at Sex on the table. Nothing changed my culinary point of view so fundamentally and shook my world-view with an intensity like the experience of cooking with young, American adults – lovers in all stages of dating. Today I’m sharing my collection of the lessons 7,000 loving hobby cooks from all over the country have taught me. And I will continue to publish the compilation of the dirty little secrets of a chef’s trade that I taught them.
The sun‘s out and it‘s 80 degrees. Warm wind gusts through your open windows as you drive to the store. You pick up a couple of rib-eyes, your favorite sides, a few hot dogs and beer. Back home, you start heating up the grill as you prepare the sides and unwrap the steak. Everything looks so good; in fact, this time you splurged on dry-aged. Your excitement rises as the sun-drenched grass caresses your feet on the way to the grill. Eddies of heat lick your forearms as you lay the dry-aged rib-eye on the grill, sending up thick swirls of smoke into the sky. Today is the perfect day. When the rib-eye is finally in front of you, you slice the flawlessly charred crust of your steak – the anticipation is too much to bear – and the promise of a perfect steak crumbles around you in an instant: a discharge of bloody juices and flavor escape, leaving it jaw-achingly dry. This is the moment that you realize every time you thought, “I can make this better at home” – you were dead wrong.
1. Two Temperatures
No matter if it’s beef, pork, poultry, lamb or veal; searing meat well initially requires high heat. If your cut of meat sears faster than it cooks – in other words if it’s a nice, thick cut – then it’s necessary to finish it on medium heat. When exposing meat to high heat, the pores on the outside seal, which keeps juices from escaping. Therefore, when barbecuing, use two temperature zones on different parts of the grill. The transfer of heat is facilitated by grease – such as fat in a pan or oil in a marinade. I suggest grapeseed, coconut, peanut, or avocado oil, as well as ghee. However, keep in mind that marinades are more for tenderizing tougher cuts of meat. A good quality piece of meat should only need simple seasoning: oil, salt and pepper suffice. If the cut is only USDA SELECT quality, tenderize it with lime juice.
2. Salt Draws Out Moisture
Everything that gets in touch with salt dehydrates. From the moment you salt your meat, succulent juices are leached out – the finer the salt, the more expedited the process. With rock or pyramid salt, 30 minutes is a good amount of time to allow for it to melt into the steak; for fine sea salt, even one minute is too long to wait before you lose moisture.
3. Be Gentle
The look of the sear will tell you when it is time to turn the meat. Flip it, then reduce the heat to medium – allowing a timely charring process allows for the perfect sear on the outside and the desired temperature on the inside.
4. Be patient
If you prefer medium-rare, aim for a core temperature of 135°F. However, do not stab your meat with a thermometer, or otherwise puncture the perfectly seared crust in any other way. In contrast to the core temperature, the exterior of your cut reaches 3-4 times that. This means two things: one, that your steak continues to cook even after you remove it from the heat source. Two, different temperatures create a pressure vacuum. When you break the seal of the outer crust too early, you release all the juices that you preserved by the searing process.
In other words, when your meat is cooked it is not done. After cooking, it needs to rest. A good rule of thumb is to let it rest for 10 minutes per pound of meat. If you’re afraid of eating it cold, wrap it in tinfoil and let it rest at a warm place such as the upper grill of the barbecue, the open door of a warm oven, or on top of the stove in the space between burners. That is, after all, also the reason why your steak at the steakhouse has one, perfect color from top to bottom. And yours at home has a cooked ring in a pink circle with a raw core.