When Chefs Stop Chasing Accolades, They Find Something So Much Better

The first time I realized I had no interest in Michelin stars, I was standing in the freezer of my restaurant, sweating through my kitchen shirt, anxiety pumping, and wondering why I felt so hollow inside. 

My high-profile restaurant had been open for two years. We were booked months out. The food and experience were dialed in. The reviews were praiseworthy. The team was clicking and it seemed like we were flying on rocket fuel. But here I was, hiding in the walk-in, thinking to myself, “So, is this it?”

I had become the guy I had been told and taught to be, and the guy I'd thought I wanted to be. Hungry. Relentless. Fixated on craft. But to be honest, I was also half-dead, frequently intoxicated, severely overweight and out of shape, fighting through intense anxiety, missing birthdays, and constantly doing math in my head about stars, lists, awards, mentions, followers, and scores. I was chasing ghosts.

Stars and accolades can be a trap

That’s what accolades can do. Pursuing them starts out feeling like ambition and if you’re not careful, it morphs into obsession. Not with your food, but with your reflection. It can warp your perspective and ultimately, your North Star. 

I know I’m not alone in this. There’s a quiet reckoning happening in kitchens everywhere of chefs waking up mid-career, in the thick of what we'd always thought of as success, realizing the very thing we thought we wanted might be what was keeping us from building something real, with true longevity and meaning. 

The pursuit of accolades can be important. It helps galvanize a team. It allows your staff and best employees to have something concrete to show off on their resumes and there is value in that. Stars and awards can help reservations and occupancy rates, as well as visibility and customer acquisition. But I’m not talking about those things necessarily. I’m speaking to the people who are feeling like accolades are the only way to validate their work. 

I look around and I see more and more chefs are stepping away from the glitz, not because they failed, but because they grew. They got curious about what happens when you stop pushing for the validation of people who don’t know your name and start cooking for your community, your team, and your “why.”

The chefs who played it their way

Take Roy Choi for example. This guy has never played by the rules but lately he’s leveled up in a way that doesn’t always come with awards; it comes with purpose. He’s building health-focused content, cookbooks that feel like journals, and showing people how to nourish themselves from a place of joy, not fear. The Kogi brand is still slamming, as are his Las Vegas ventures, but Roy’s focused on something additional now. He’s investing in storytelling, equity, and voice. Roy’s approach of being someone who is bright, funky, and rooted in his community, suits him and cuts to the core of what he values most in this moment. 

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Or look at Mashama Bailey, who could’ve chased every elite dining room in the country but instead she basically said, “No, I’m going to cook in a former Greyhound station in Savannah and honor my heritage.” At The Grey, she’s redefining Southern food, building generational change, and mentoring her ass off. That’s real leadership, legacy, and community. The accolades — including a James Beard Award for Outstanding Chef — found her where she was.

And then there are chefs like Tanya Holland, who never even got the chance to seek stars — not because she wasn’t qualified, but because the system wasn’t built for her.

“I wasn’t chasing accolades,” she told me in a recent phone call. “I was trying to survive.”

Despite an impeccable resume and talent that spans from soulful staples to foie gras terrine, Holland found herself shut out of the rooms that were supposed to recognize brilliance. “I’d send in my resume and they’d say they wanted to meet me,” she said. Then I’d show up, and they wouldn’t even open the door.” 

And yet, with television shows, podcasts, and cookbooks in addition to her beloved restaurant Brown Sugar Kitchen, Holland has carved out a platform that wields real power, sharing storytelling, mentorship, and opportunity. “I don’t give a shit about fame; fame found me,” she said. “I didn’t open restaurants because I needed attention. I did it to create opportunity for others, not myself.”

Even whole regions are saying no to stars. Virginia recently declined Michelin’s invitation to set up shop. It turns out the state didn’t feel like forking over hundreds of thousands of dollars for a European rating system that doesn’t reflect their particular local values or dining culture. Chefs and restaurateurs cheered. Why? Because they’re focused on building ecosystems, engaging with their communities, and doubling down on connection. 

When asked about the state’s dismissal of Michelin, chef Ian Boden of the restaurants The Shack and Maude and the Bear supported the move and said he's “tired of shelling out” simply for “exposure.”

Stars aren't the only metric for success

The honest truth is that when you stop chasing stars, you start chasing something much more important: Impact. Speaking from experience, I can tell you that’s a hell of a lot more fulfilling.

These days, the chefs that I admire aren’t worried about keeping score; they’re building something more important. They’re scaling intentionally. Many are opening multiple concepts that reflect the communities they serve. They're investing in their teams and speaking on panels. They’re building brands that reflect who they are, not who the industry told them to be. 

And probably most importantly; they’re building lives outside the kitchen or in the very least, finding a deeper level of connection with what motivates them. This humanizing element sets them apart in an upside-down world and proves that food and restaurants connect us all. 

When I sold my restaurant and stepped away for a time, it truly felt like I was walking away from my identity. Anyone who’s been there knows. It turns out, I was walking towards it. 

I walked away and found something much better

I was reorienting myself toward a new way of being a chef, a leader, a builder. I started focusing on my own wellness and my team’s. I started prioritizing coaching other chefs who were feeling that same mental, emotional, and physical weight that I once carried. I started having honest, uncomfortable, human conversations about burnout, mental health, and what it means to lead with empathy. The egocentric days of chasing accolades were over. That was a new kind of freedom.

The old model is broken. The tortured chef archetype? Dumb and played out. Being torchbearers for the “We don’t need sleep!” trope? Straight-up dangerous. 

By focusing on what’s truly important, you build a workplace where your cooks aren’t afraid to have kids, get therapy, or — gasp — say they’re tired. You build a space where the food and hospitality can evolve because you, too, are evolving. In a tangible way, you go from being a technician to a visionary. You start to think in terms of systems and scale. You become a real entrepreneur, not just someone with good mise and fancy knives. You are someone building change.

You learn to say no to things that don’t align. You stop comparing your own particular path to someone else’s highlight reel. You stop designing dishes for Instagram and instead focus on crafting systems that might just outlast you. 

I’ve seen chefs leave the madness and open butcher shops, bakeries, cooking schools, community kitchens, food brands, and farms. I even gave farming a try when I allowed myself the space. I failed miserably, but at least I tried. 

I’ve seen chefs also pour themselves into mentorship, into employee ownership models, into coaching and leadership development. I’ve seen them — and I’ve been them — standing at the edge of burnout and instead choosing life. That’s real freedom. It’s a freedom to think bigger, to live longer and to actually love the work again in new ways. 

Define excellence for yourself

This certainly isn’t an anti-excellence rant. I’m still completely fixated on technique. I get giddy over a perfectly cooked ribeye over a fire, or an emulsified sauce that absolutely hits. But what I’ve learned is that excellence doesn’t have to come at the expense of everything else. What’s wild is that when you stop chasing stars, sometimes the real accolades find you anyway —  even though you don’t really need them. You’re already satiated.

So to the chefs out there grinding for recognition, I get it. I respect your tireless hard work. But I also want you to know that there’s more than one way to make it. Sometimes the most powerful move you can make is to redefine what “making it” even means. Redefine it for yourself.

Maybe it’s not a star. Maybe it’s not a perfect review.  Instead, maybe it’s a business that simultaneously feeds people and your soul. Maybe it’s your sous chef buying their first home because you have built a culture where they are valued and supported. They benefit from mentorship so they can grow and thrive, and then they can do the same for their cooks one day. 

Maybe it’s getting to tuck your kids in at night without checking Resy on your phone. Whatever it is, make sure it’s yours and that you own the process. The moment you stop cooking for the approval of the gatekeepers and start cooking for yourself, your people, and your mission — that’s when it’s real magic.

And trust me, the food actually tastes better.