Favorite Chef: Pay-to-Win Bullshit Disguised as Opportunity

Let’s get some shit straight: the “Favorite Chef” competition is not what it looks like. It’s not a celebration of talent. It’s not a chance for hardworking chefs to rise. It’s not even a real contest in the traditional sense. It’s a cleverly disguised, pay-to-win fundraiser — allegedly — with a cash prize dangled in front of chefs and home cooks like a corporate carrot on a stick.

Don’t let the chef coats and charity buzzwords fool you. This thing looks like a cooking competition, but it acts like a monetized popularity contest — the kind of thing that would’ve made sense in high school when we were all voting for prom king and queen. Except now, your grandma’s voting with her credit card, and someone somewhere is quietly making bank off your hope.

If you’re not familiar with this “contest” — let me be blunt: it’s horseshit. I’m going to piss some of you off and that’s okay. A lot of you participate in these sorts of things for a number of reasons — ego, attention, low self-esteem — probably with the hope of having $25K in the bank to help with the mortgage. Times are tough. I get it. I’ve got a kid to feed too. Calm down. Whatever the reason, MOST — if not all — of you look embarrassing to the rest of us sitting on the sidelines shaking our heads in frustration. That’s just the truth.

Here’s how it works: enter for free, get people to vote for you, and win the grand prize — $25,000 and a feature in Taste of Home magazine. Sounds easy, right? Except you only get one free vote per person per day. After that, you’re encouraged — heavily — to buy additional votes. They call them “Hero Votes.” They cost $1 each. The more votes you or your supporters buy, the better your chances of winning. According to Favorite Chef’s own rules, the contest is determined entirely by votes.

So yeah — this is essentially a pay-to-win competition, where the outcome has nothing to do with skill, background, hard work, or the quality of your food. It’s about who can raise the most cash, period. You’re going to lose, chef. You’re going to lose to someone you probably hate. Someone who isn’t even a chef. Someone with a bigger follower count and an even bigger bank account. That’s just the facts.

So, who runs this? (Pssst… it’s not Carla Hall. She’s just a name they slapped on it to give it credibility. Source) The contest is operated by Colossal Management, LLC, a for-profit professional fundraising company. They’re the same folks behind contests like Inked Magazine’s Cover Girl, another popularity contest — except this one preys on chicks with tattoos who love attention. Fab Over 40 is another one that feeds the egos of corporate wannabes, and America’s Favorite Pet speaks for itself. Different audiences. Same formula: pay to vote, raise millions, hand out a prize, and claim IN PRIVATE it’s all for charity.

Now in fairness — and to avoid a cease-and-desist — Colossal does disclose that they are a commercial fundraiser and that not all proceeds go directly to charity. A portion goes to them, a portion goes to a nonprofit intermediary called DTCare, and the rest — allegedly — ends up in the hands of a chosen nonprofit partner.

In the case of Favorite Chef, that partner is the James Beard Foundation. In 2023 alone, the contest raised over $4.7 million, and in 2024, that number matched or exceeded that amount (source). The grand prize for the winning chef? $25,000. That’s less than 1% of the total raised.

Now I’m not saying — explicitly — that this is shady. But if you raised $4.7 million off the backs of chefs and bakers and handed $25K to the winner while keeping the rest for “programming” and “operations,” someone might — allegedly — have some questions. Sure 25k is a lot! I know how to count. That’s not my point.

The James Beard Foundation claims the money goes to things like scholarships, mentorships, diversity programs, and events. All good things — on paper. But again, we don’t know the exact breakdown. Their public reports and press releases tout “impact,” but like a lot of large nonprofits, “impact” can mean anything from community grants to a really nice event production budget. I’m not saying Beard is misusing funds, but I am saying they’ve got a reputation for being an elite cultural institution — not a grassroots kitchen relief fund.

Colossal, meanwhile, allegedly retains a portion of the funds raised for “costs, expenses, and fees,” as disclosed in their own terms and on their official fundraising pages. The rest is passed along through DTCare — which, for the record, is legally a 501(c)(3), but essentially exists to funnel money between Colossal and their chosen charities. According to charitable disclosure statements, these contests are structured to meet the minimum legal requirement of passing 50% to the nonprofit, but they “aim” for 70%. That means up to half of every donated dollar can be legally used to cover internal expenses. Again — I’m not saying that’s shady, but doesn’t that seem shady as fuck? I’m saying it’s something you should know before you start embarrassingly begging for daily votes. It’s unbecoming and you know it.

Now here’s where it gets extra sketchy to me. According to Colossal’s own privacy policy, when you vote, register, or donate, you’re handing over personal data: name, email, IP address, location, and more. Yes — if you don’t know that ALL data you give to an online form is being used and sold, you’re an idiot. They claim they don’t sell your data “without your consent,” but they also say they might share it with “partners” who assist in operating the contest and might ask for permission to share it with unaffiliated third parties at any time.

That’s lawyer-speak for: “we’re not doing it yet... but we could.” Their payment processor, Stripe, logs even more: device data, browser history, and behavioral analytics. It’s all wrapped up in the fine print under “fraud prevention” and “service optimization.” Translation: your voters’ data and activity becomes a marketing asset.

So yeah — you’re not just entering a contest. You’re handing over your digital footprint and your so-called “fans” for potential long-term use, all in exchange for the hope that someone you love might win a contest they probably won’t.

In my opinion, this whole thing is allegedly a fundraising and data collection funnel with a prize tacked on. It’s built to look empowering — like a shot at stardom for the underdog chef — but behind the curtain, it functions like a crowd-funded campaign disguised as a talent competition. Look, I’m not saying don’t participate. Hell, if you’ve got the energy, the network, and the extra cash, go for it. Just don’t walk into it thinking it’s about skill. It’s not. It’s about attention, reach, and how much money you can generate for someone else. Some influencer who hijacked your job title of “chef” will probably beat you because they have more followers and more expendable income to buy votes.

Why waste your time? Are you as hungry for admiration and attention as someone cosplaying as you, a chef, online? Come on. You’re better than that.

And if you’re watching your coworker put their heart and soul into campaigning, begging for votes, skipping rent to stay competitive — and then they lose to someone who spent five grand on Hero Votes — you’ll understand why this whole thing feels fucking disgusting.

This is all based on publicly available information. All facts, numbers, and quotes cited here are pulled from Colossal’s terms of use, privacy policy, press releases, and reputable media coverage. Interpretations are opinions — do your own research.

So, to the chefs out there: your work matters. Please stop participating in this nonsense. You deserve better than a rigged system that turns your blood, sweat, and burn marks into a digital popularity contest-slash-marketing campaign. This isn’t a contest. It’s a transaction. And the only real winner is the one collecting the votes — and the people paying their way to the top.

It’s everything that’s wrong with the world right now. Monetized validation. Hustle culture pretending to be opportunity. Corporations pushing fake authenticity while rewarding shortcuts, cheating, and clout over skill. It’s greed, plain and simple — dressed up like community.

And you know it.

They don’t care who cooks best. They care who brings in the money. So before you spend another second begging for votes, ask yourself: who’s actually winning here?

Because it’s not you. And if you do win, can I borrow 20 bucks?

Good luck. 🤜