In the glitzy world of celebrity ventures, where athletes pivot from gridiron glory to gastronomic gambles, few launches have shimmered quite like 1587 Prime. Opened in September 2025 by Kansas City Chiefs superstars Patrick Mahomes and Travis Kelce, the steakhouse nestled inside the Loews Kansas City Hotel promised a fusion of “tradition meets innovation.” The name? A clever mashup of their jersey numbers—15 for Mahomes, 87 for Kelce—evoking the unbreakable bond that has delivered three Super Bowl rings in five years. With moody lighting, premium Wagyu cuts, and cocktails nodding to their personal lore (think Mahomes’ infamous ketchup-on-steak flight or Kelce’s “Big Yeti” tipple), it was billed as Kansas City’s crown jewel: a $800-per-head feast for fans, celebrities, and locals alike.

The grand opening on September 17—coinciding with Mahomes’ 30th birthday—drew A-listers like Taylor Swift, Brittany Mahomes, and country star Kane Brown. Early buzz was electric. A Business Insider review gushed over the “more than just a meal” experience, praising the thoughtful details: mirrors optimized for selfies, Garage Beer taps honoring Kelce’s family brewing side hustle, and a menu that blended high-end steaks with playful Chiefs Easter eggs. Google reviews quickly climbed to a solid 4.3 stars from over 230 diners, with raves for the ambiance—”one of the nicest restaurants I’ve been to,” one patron wrote—and standout items like the wedge salad, deemed “awesome.” Even the priciest offerings, like a $345 40oz Wagyu Tomahawk or $165 ribeye, were defended as befitting a spot rivaling global steakhouses.

But then came the potatoes. A innocuous Reddit post from user “rosie67034” on October 22 detonated the hype machine. The snapshot? A diminutive metal bowl of what appeared to be pale, unadorned mashed potatoes, slapped with a $16 price tag. The caption: “The $16 mashed potatoes served at Patrick Mahomes and Travis Kelce’s new restaurant. They are also frequently served cold.” What followed was a digital dumpster fire. Social media erupted with memes, roasts, and calls for boycotts. “If that’s mashed potatoes, then I have 12 Super Bowl rings. I wouldn’t feed that to my dog,” quipped one viral commenter. Another dubbed it “instant irritable bowel syndrome,” while X (formerly Twitter) users piled on: “Soupy powdered potatoes” and “I could make instant mash for $2.” The post snowballed into a broader takedown, with one X user lamenting, “I’m truly shocked that the restaurant opened by 2 NFL players is sh-tty.” By October 24, it had morphed into a full-blown cultural moment, amplified by outlets like Sportskeeda and Marca, questioning if the dish looked more like “fake mashed potatoes” than fine dining.

The backlash wasn’t isolated to spuds. Diners griped about a $24 twice-baked potato arriving “overseasoned and gray,” overcooked fried chicken appetizers, and steaks that were tender but “not flavorful.” One reviewer rated the food a generous 7/10, calling the mashed side “really whipped potatoes—like fake mashed potatoes, but had good flavor.” Service complaints trickled in too: cold deliveries, underwhelming portions, and a vibe that screamed “celebrity markup” over culinary craft. “It’s a nice atmosphere. It’s really beautiful, but there is nothing worth the money on the menu. It’s almost insulting,” vented a frustrated patron, arguing the prices suited Hollywood elites, not heartland Kansas City. X echoed the sentiment, with one user declaring the entire meal “nasty” enough to warrant a McDonald’s chaser.

At its core, this isn’t just about a bowl of starch—it’s a referendum on celebrity restaurants. Mahomes and Kelce, serial investors with net worths north of $100 million each (bolstered by endorsements from State Farm to Swift’s Eras Tour glow), represent the latest wave of athlete-entrepreneurs flooding hospitality. Think Ryan Reynolds’ Wrexham-inspired pubs or Tom Brady’s TB12 cafes. These spots leverage fame for buzz, but when the product falters, the fall is swift. Critics point to overreliance on branding: Why pay $16 for basics when home cooks whip up gourmet versions for pennies? Defenders counter that fine dining sides—like truffle-infused mashes at spots such as CUT by Wolfgang Puck—often hit $12-$20, reflecting premium ingredients and labor. Yet in Kansas City, where median household income hovers around $65,000, the optics sting. “They did a disservice to the people of Kansas City,” one fan fumed on X, decrying the inaccessibility.

Amid the melee, the duo stayed Chiefs-focused. Kelce addressed the chatter obliquely on his podcast, emphasizing steaks as the star: “Obviously, the steaks are like the main reason why you’re gonna want to go to 1587 for sure.” Mahomes, ever the unflappable QB, was spotted unfazed, dining with wife Brittany and mom Randi at the steakhouse days after the storm— a viral photo of family bliss amid the beef. In a savvy pivot, 1587 Prime announced a free tailgate bash ahead of the Chiefs’ October 27 clash with the Washington Commanders: live music, food trucks, cheerleader meet-and-greets, and “signature game day tastes” to reclaim the narrative. Bookings remain packed through August 2026, per one X skeptic, suggesting die-hards are forgiving—or at least curious.

This saga underscores a timeless tension: Fame fills seats, but flavor keeps them coming back. For Mahomes and Kelce, whose on-field magic has netted Kansas City championships and cultural cachet, 1587 Prime could evolve into a touchdown—or a fumble. As one X user put it, channeling Salt Bae’s infamous markups, “As a man, if you’re paying $38 for mashed potatoes… they saw your suggestible azz coming.” Will tweaks to the menu—hotter spuds, bolder seasonings—silence the skeptics? Or does this expose the pitfalls of star-powered plates? In a city that worships its heroes, the real test isn’t the tomahawk; it’s proving the hype isn’t half-baked.