Fickle Food Economics: The Cult of Celebrity Endorsements

A few months ago, Mindy, an old friend from university, called me in a frenzy, breathless—not from excitement, but from attempting the ‘12-30-4’ treadmill challenge, because a certain celebrity swore by it. “I need to get on this new supplement,” she said breathlessly. “Have you seen how amazing XYZ looks? She says it’s all because of this!” The ‘this’ in question was an overpriced collagen supplement, promising to erase wrinkles faster than Mindy could say ‘checkout’ on the brand’s website, marketed by a world-famous actress who had, coincidentally, just launched her own wellness brand. Mindy had no medical background, no real understanding of what the supplement did, and no proof it worked—other than the fact that someone famous, with a suspiciously well-lit kitchen, swore by it.

Trust, that fragile thread between belief and illusion, has become the currency of our age—handed out, collected, and spent by celebrities like loyalty points in the grand supermarket of influence. We live in an era where anecdotal evidence from the famous holds an inexplicable weight. If a well-known actress loses weight on Ozempic, it must be the ultimate solution—because clearly, decades of medical research pale in comparison to a single red carpet appearance. If a reality star swears by a certain protein shake, surely it must be the secret to their fitness. This is the unspoken logic that governs much of modern consumer behavior: fame equates to credibility. But I always wonder—does credibility equal legitimacy? Would I do the same if I ever reached celebrity status? Would I also endorse? After all, we often put off making powerful decisions, waiting until we are in a position to influence. But here again, I find myself caught in the middle—not entirely able to see the good in it, yet not willing to criticize it completely. Because those are two different things. How do we measure a celeb’s credibility, and how much legitimacy does it actually add?

Yet, beneath the polished veneer of celebrity, they’re just humans—flawed, fragile, and draped in designer wear. Humans with the same vulnerabilities, the same struggles, and the same desperate searches for shortcuts as the rest of us. The difference lies in the visibility of their journey. Where the average person’s weight loss struggles or dietary experiments happen in private, celebrities undergo these processes under the glaring scrutiny of millions. And in return, their decisions—no matter how personal or flawed—become gospel to their followers.

Social media has taken this to a whole new level, turning casual celebrity endorsements into full-blown shopping frenzies. Once upon a time, celebrity culture was more elusive. At most, a magazine might tell you which perfume a star preferred, their go-to restaurant, or the book they were reading. Perhaps they’d share a vague outline of their fitness regimen. Today, we have access to a minute-by-minute breakdown of what celebrities consume, what supplements they take, the skin treatments they undergo, and the biohacking experiments they swear by. The more intimate the detail, the more valuable it becomes.

And then comes the inevitable monetization—because why just be famous when you can also be rich off the collective gullibility of your fans? Fame alone is no longer enough. The real economic opportunity lies in transforming trust into commerce. The new fickle food economics is not just about endorsements—it’s about ownership. Celebrities are no longer just telling us about the gin they love; they are launching their own gin brands. They’re not just raving about the supplements they take; they’re manufacturing and selling them. The fandom, primed to believe in the celebrity’s lifestyle choices, transforms into a ready-made customer base.

The result? A marketplace where perceived authenticity sells more than actual efficacy, and where a celebrity’s casual ‘I love this!’ translates to millions in sales, while your mom’s health advice gets met with an eye-roll. A Kardashian-approved collagen powder, a footballer’s energy drink, a singer’s sustainably sourced meal replacement—each product becomes an extension of the celebrity persona. The irony? The same people who once casually endorsed brands for a paycheck now ‘authentically’ launch their own, capitalizing on the very trust they once loaned out for endorsement deals.

Mindy, inevitably, surrendered to the siren call of collagen, for resisting the gravitational pull of celebrity influence is akin to standing against the tide with nothing but a teaspoon. A month later, she admitted it made no noticeable difference to her health. “Maybe I wasn’t taking it the right way,” she reasoned, unwilling to accept that the magic pill had failed. And therein lies the ultimate hook of the fickle food economy—it thrives on the hope that the next purchase, the next celebrity-approved product, will finally deliver what the last one did not.

And so the cycle repeats—yesterday’s miracle product gathers dust while today’s ‘must-have’ fills our carts, keeping the dream alive just a little longer. But then, I also wonder—if I ever found myself in a position of influence, would I do the same? Would I endorse? After all, not everyone is trying to deceive; some are simply trying to survive. Success, celebrity, and the relentless pursuit of engagement can put bread on the table. In a strange way, I respect it. It’s not just about conformity—it’s about survival in an economy where attention is currency. And in a way, I respect that. I see influencers—some who have reached full-blown celebrity, others simply hustling—and I understand the game. It’s a way to make a living, to capitalize on opportunity, to turn likes and engagement into something tangible. But here’s where I get stuck: I don’t know whether to critique it or accept it as an inevitable reality. Because my frustration isn’t with the act of endorsement itself—it’s with the blind faith we place in it. Just as we once believed magazine spreads that promised ‘the secret diet of the stars,’ today we fall for Instagram stories that sell ‘my personal wellness routine.’ Only now, the stakes are higher, the profits are immense, and our wallets are on an unplanned diet of their own. I think my problem lies not in raising awareness, but in conformity. My irritation isn’t with endorsements themselves, but with the absolute trust we place in them, handing over our skepticism alongside our credit card details.

Welcome to the modern fickle food economy, where what we eat is dictated not by science or necessity but by the carefully curated lifestyles of the famous.

Disclaimer: I would absolutely, no questions asked, without a doubt, endorse a Nespresso machine.

P.S. I am watching Shrinking, and I still love Jason Segel