FROM FINE DINING TO SANDWICHES…HOW BITE ME! WAS BORN: PART 1.

THE BEST WORST DECISION WE’VE EVER MADE.

Our Peruvian Butifarra, also known as “The Buti-Call”. The first sandwich on our menu.

When we left our jobs in fine dining, we thought we knew what was next. Sebastian was looking for work and (Malia) was interviewing for a management role at another high-end spot. On paper, the “safe” path was right there in front of us.

But instead of jumping straight into new jobs, we thought: why not do something fun in the meantime? Originally, the plan was simple: fine dining pop-ups. Just a few 7–11 course tasting events here and there while we figured out our next steps. Something immersive, cultural, unique. A creative project to pass the time between jobs.

But one decision led to another… and suddenly, we were on a path we never expected.

The Kitchen Dilemma

If you want to run food events in Vancouver, you need a commercial kitchen. Easy, right? Wrong.

We toured kitchen after kitchen, paying outrageous rent, hidden storage fees, and extra charges just to maybe get a time slot. By the time we walked out of our fourth kitchen tour, we were ready to give up.

That same day, I got offered the management job. But I couldn’t shake the thought: what if we figured out Delgado & Co.? What if we made this work?

And then it happened. A kitchen—clean, organized, centrally located downtown—popped up on my phone like fate. I called the owner, and he told me to come in 30 minutes. I called Sebastian and said: get downtown now.

It was perfect. Full-time, available on the 1st. Only problem? The first was 4 weeks away. One month. And full-time rent.

So… what do two newly unemployed hospitality people do when they realize they’re about to commit to a full-time kitchen they can’t afford?

The Sandwich Plot Twist

Sebastian turns to me and says: “Sandwiches.”

I’m like: “…Sandwiches?” (For the record, I don’t even like sandwiches.)

But he had been dreaming up a Peruvian sandwich concept for a while. What if, he said, on the days we weren’t catering, we ran a sandwich company for delivery and pickup? That way we could cover rent, test recipes, and see if people liked the idea.

And so, bite me! was born—our fun, slightly chaotic alter ego to the polished catering world of Delgado & Co.

Bread, Butifarra, and Budgeting

From there, things got wild. Sebastian scoured the city for the perfect bread—tasting, freezing, reheating sourdough from every provider until we found “the one.” Then came recipe testing. In his tiny basement apartment, surrounded by post-it notes plastered everywhere like a scene from a detective movie, Sebastian slow-cooked pork shoulder to create our very first sandwich: the Butifarra.

Meanwhile, I became the procurement department—with no idea what I was doing. Sebastian would ask for a “rondeau,” and I’d be Googling “what is a rondeau??” He’d send me to buy limes, and I’d proudly come back with the wrong ones (apparently the “good ones” don’t have pores?? Didn’t know limes had the pressure to be poreless as well).

We had practically no money between the two of us, and we stretched our non-existent budget like elastic. My mom’s boyfriend donated random pots and pans from his old restaurant (not fine dining quality, but hey, free is free). We bought only one ladle. Minimum cutting boards, minimum bowls. Takeout boxes for sandwiches, elegant plates for the fine dining menus. Every penny had to count.

The First Menu

We launched with four sandwiches, each one crafted with the same precision and obsession you’d expect from a fine dining kitchen—not a takeout window. These weren’t “just sandwiches.” Every element was tested, tweaked, and perfected until we were proud enough to put it in someone’s hands.

The Butifarra
Pork shoulder butcher-twined and slow-cooked for 48 hours until it melted apart, then piled high with house-made bold Peruvian mustard, a fiery salsa criolla with fresh aji limo, and a generous amount of creamy avocado.

The Chicharrón
A pork belly masterpiece. First cured for 48 hours, then sous vided to perfection, and finally fried to golden, crackling crispness. Layered with salsa criolla, more aji limo, and our house-made anticuchera mayo. As if that wasn’t enough, we added yams that were baked and then fried for the ultimate crispy-sweet bite.

The Nikkei Chicken
A fiery wok moment. Chicken flambéed with big flames in our signature Saltado sauce—made from a broth we house-crafted from scratch (the kind of broth that took forever, cost a small fortune, and made the whole kitchen smell incredible). Tossed with snap peas for crunch, then topped with our house-made Nikkei mayo.

The Lomito Saltado
Inspired by the classic Peruvian dish, but handheld. Tender beef, seared and tossed with peppers, onions, and that same complex, rich saltado sauce. Served hot on local artisanal sourdough, it was everything you’d expect from a fine dining entrée—except you could eat it with one hand.

Every single ingredient had a story, a process, and an almost ridiculous level of care behind it. From sauces to broths to the way we cured pork belly—nothing was an afterthought.

Bite me! wasn’t just a side hustle. It became our baby.

The Marketing Meltdown

Two weeks before launch, Sebastian proudly declared: “We have a menu.” He handed me two sandwiches to photograph for social media. I show up at his apartment, camera in hand, and… well, let’s just say the sandwiches tasted incredible but looked…let’s just say I found it hard to find their “good angle”.

And since I was (by default) the social media manager, it was my job to make them look irresistible. Except I wasn’t a photographer. At that moment, staring at a sandwich that looked more like a collapsed tent, I thought: This is not going to work.

Cue: us scraping together $500 we didn’t have to hire a real photographer. Painful at the time, but worth it—suddenly our food looked as good as it tasted.

We were convinced: we’re going to kill it on Uber Eats.

The Uber Eats Disaster

So, I start the onboarding process. Keep in mind, this whole time I’m also learning how to even make a company: opening bank accounts, getting insurance, Googling every step. And then comes the fine print: Uber Eats commission tiers.

On the lowest tier, consumers pay outrageous delivery fees, which means fewer orders. On the 30% tier, customers get low delivery fees and we get “better visibility”—but 30% gone, just like that.

We did the math. With our original pricing (designed to keep protein high-quality, cooking times extensive, and produce impeccable), we were bleeding money. We had to raise prices.

The Burger.

And yeah, at first, from a FOH standpoint I was worried about the $20 price tag and $25 for a combo. But when you think about it as a handheld fine dining entrée? Suddenly, it makes sense. Walk into any casual fine dining chain and you’ll pay that (or more) for a handheld and fries and our products are not from these big box producers. Everything was small batched, slow-cooked, and used Authentic Peruvian ingredients.

So we raised our prices, created discounts for pickup, and pressed on.

Launch Day

We turned the Uber Eats app on for the first time, both hovering over the iPad, waiting for the orders to roll in.

They didn’t.

Nothing for 7 days. We ate our own product. We turned sourdough into buckets of breadcrumbs. My “office chair” was a sideways glass tray washer. Sebastian sat on a milk crate.

I started learning Canva, marketing, and social strategy on the fly. What if we leaned into our bite me! vibe—fun, cheeky, irreverent? We rebranded the sandwiches with outrageous names.

During that same whirlwind, we got our very first order. A Peruvian. The ultimate test. Looking back, it’s hilarious—the chaos, the stress, all over one sandwich. Sebastian was in full fine-dining mode, I was pacing like we were about to serve Michelin inspectors, and the kitchen felt like it was on fire. When we finally sent it off, I thought to myself: Wow, I’ve never stressed about food this much in my entire service industry career. I must reallllly care about this company.

Minutes later, the customer wrote us a very long detailed review about how AMAZING it was.

Game on.

Shortly after, we rebranded the names of our sandwiches—and that’s when I woke up to an email from the Daily Hive.

The Kitchen Chaos

Within hours, I was burning myself on the fryer while answering phones, handing off orders, and running to meet drivers. Sebastian was searing, slicing, saucing at lightning speed.

I remember standing there, covered in oil splatter, thinking: How did we go from planning a couple fine dining pop-ups to this?

Sebastian—who could’ve been sitting in a regional chef’s office for a fine dining restaurant group—was now making Peruvian sandwiches. And me? I was the social media manager, event planner, dishwasher, and suddenly… fryer girl.

And somehow, against all odds, it worked. Orders were rolling in, the reviews were almost all glowing, and bite me! finally felt alive.

The Ad Trap

But beneath the excitement, something darker was brewing.

We had basic ads running on Uber Eats, and these ads charge per click. Which means if someone taps our sandwich, stares at it, decides “nah” and orders a burrito instead—we still pay. Death by a thousand clicks.

And to stay competitive? We had to play the promo game. Everyone was running BOGO offers. So we caved. We put out our first Buy One Get One deal… and boom. Our first bad review.

“Not worth the price.”

That stung. Especially because it was written by someone who got two fine-dining-level sandwiches for $10 each. Quick math: a $20 sandwich – 30% commission – 30% food cost – 50% discount… yeah. Basically, we were paying people to eat our food.

The honeymoon phase with Uber Eats was over. We had made no money, no progress, and almost every single positive review we’d gotten still wasn’t enough to fix the math problem. Because at the end of the day… we needed more orders. And we needed to figure out this Uber Eats problem—fast.

To be continued…