We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Rachid Akiki a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below.

Rachid, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today We’d love to have you retell us the story behind how you came up with the idea for your business, I think our audience would really enjoy hearing the backstory.

It began with a sound. A distant jingle winding through the streets of Bkaatouta, bouncing off stone walls and into my grandmother’s kitchen. I’d press my face against the window, waiting for that blue and white ice cream truck like it was delivering joy itself.

My teta—Teta Marie—would hand me a few lira, and I’d dash barefoot toward that truck as if everything good in the world was waiting at its bumper. It wasn’t just about the ice cream. It was about presence. About the kind of joy you don’t analyze. The kind that smells like za’atar and lives in your bones.

Years passed. I became a doctor. Then an entrepreneur. I built tech platforms, ran consulting businesses, launched ventures. But something was still missing. There was a hunger no spreadsheet could fill.

The idea came to me on one of my sunrise rides from Brickell to South Beach. Twelve miles in, I’d collapse by the ocean, watching the sun slowly tear itself from the water—silent, glorious, undefeated.

Afterward, I’d call my mom. Every morning. And every morning, like a ritual, she’d say, “Eat your za’atar—it makes you smarter.”

It wasn’t about the za’atar. It was about home. About remembering. About how food connects us to where we come from and who we still are, deep down.

That’s when I found the truck. A 1963 Ford, worn but proud. The man selling it had driven it across America, chasing his own dreams. The moment I saw it, I didn’t just see a vehicle. I saw a vessel. A thyme machine.

An idea took shape—one that could transport people back to the mornings at their grandmother’s table. To manouche fresh off the saj. To warm bread, mint leaves, tomatoes, and a mother calling from the kitchen.

I didn’t knead the dough myself. I found the best hands to do it. Artisans who understood the fire and the flour. People who could honor the recipe and the spirit. Because this wasn’t about ego—it was about evoking a feeling.

When Thyme Machine Cafe opened in Miami, people came. They tasted. They paused.

“This… this tastes like home,” they’d say.

Others who had never been to Lebanon tasted something they couldn’t name, but instantly trusted.

We weren’t just feeding people. We were reminding them.

Now Thyme Machine is rolling into cities across America—Jacksonville, Minneapolis, New Brunswick, Detroit. We’re not opening locations. We’re opening memories.

Because food isn’t just food. It’s a place. It’s a past. It’s a whisper from your grandmother’s voice saying, “Come eat, habibi.”

And all of it… started with one truck, one jingle, and one good thyme.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

Who am I? I’m someone who believes in second chances. Not the kind that are handed to you, but the kind you create with your own hands and a bit of stubbornness.

I was born in Lebanon, raised between the quiet of Bkaatouta and the noise of Beirut. I studied medicine because I wanted to help people. I moved to the United States with two suitcases, an accent, and a dream I couldn’t quite name yet. What I did have was discipline, consistency, and a refusal to give up, no matter how many times the path changed.

I’m a medical doctor by training, an entrepreneur by heart, and a builder by instinct. I’ve launched companies in telehealth, fitness tech, virtual reality, food and beverage, and workflow automation. Each one was born out of a real need—something broken I couldn’t ignore.

When I co-founded XRWorkout, it was about helping people move and feel alive in their own bodies again.
With Bookzdoctor, it was about giving patients access to second opinions when the system failed them.
With Thyme Machine Cafe, I wanted to share the food of my childhood—authentic Lebanese street food—with the world. That food wasn’t just tasty. It carried the weight of memory, home, and hospitality.

What connects everything I do is this: I build systems that bring people closer to something real. I don’t chase trends. I follow meaning. I use tools like Airtable, automation, and no-code platforms to create scalable solutions, but the real work is emotional. It’s about making things that matter.

What sets me apart is simple. I show up. Every day. I work with intention. I follow through. I’m not interested in surface-level wins. I care about what lasts. I believe in getting better every day, even if it’s just by one percent.

What I’m most proud of is that I’ve never stopped building. That I’ve remained kind. That I’ve turned uncertainty into action, and dreams into things people can actually use, taste, and feel.

If you’re someone trying to create something new, I want you to know this: you don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to start. You need to keep going. And if we ever work together, you’ll get someone who treats your project like it’s his own.

Because good ideas are everywhere. But great execution—that takes time, and it takes thyme.

Let’s talk about resilience next – do you have a story you can share with us?

I had a background in medicine, tech, and consulting. But none of that guaranteed this would work. Every new idea came with questions. Was I too late? Was I building the wrong thing? Was I just chasing hope?

There was a stretch where progress was slow. I had poured months into a project, and nothing seemed to move. I was in the fog—the kind that makes you wonder if you’re wasting your life.

Then I met someone. A stranger. They had no idea I was doubting everything. They simply said, “I’ve been looking for this for years. I thought no one would build it. And then I found yours.”

That was the moment it clicked. This wasn’t just a business. It was service.

Sometimes we look for success in charts and dashboards. But real success is invisible. It’s the quiet ripple you cause in someone else’s life. It’s knowing that something you made solved a problem they thought was unsolvable.

That day, I stopped asking if I was enough.

One person. One problem. One solution. That’s enough to keep going.

And I’ve kept going ever since.

Learning and unlearning are both critical parts of growth – can you share a story of a time when you had to unlearn a lesson?

I had to unlearn that my worth was tied to achievement.

Growing up, I chased titles, degrees, and results. I thought success meant proving something—to others, to myself, maybe even to the ghosts of expectations I inherited without question.

I became a doctor. I built companies. I kept moving. But something always felt… incomplete.

Then one day, in the middle of running a food truck in Miami, sweating over logistics and orders and customer complaints, a woman told me, “Your za’atar tastes like my childhood.”

She didn’t care where I went to school. She didn’t ask about my résumé. In that moment, what mattered was connection. A memory. A feeling that someone understood her story without saying a word.

That’s when I realized: impact is not about climbing the tallest mountain—it’s about walking with others, even if just for a few steps.

So I unlearned the need to constantly prove myself. I started focusing on building with love, showing up with meaning, and being okay with the quiet kind of success—the one that doesn’t make headlines, but changes people.

And maybe, that’s the only kind that matters.

The Lesson I Had to Unlearn: Perfection Slows You Down
I used to believe everything had to be perfect before launching. It made sense—I came from medicine, where mistakes carry real risks. But in business and creativity, that mindset can be a trap.

I spent months on a project, constantly refining it, waiting for the perfect version. But the truth was, that version never came. While I waited, others launched. While I polished, opportunities passed me by.

Eventually, I had no choice but to go live. It was messy. It wasn’t ready. But I launched it.

And it worked.

The things I obsessed over? Most didn’t matter. The best improvements came from real users, not from sitting behind a screen. That experience forced me to unlearn something I held onto for too long.

Now, I believe in moving forward before I feel fully ready. You grow by doing. You build momentum through action.

Start small. Launch fast. Improve as you go.

Because waiting for perfect means you never start. And ideas don’t need to be flawless. They just need to be real.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.rachidakiki.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rachidakiki
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/r.akiki
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/rachidakiki
• Twitter: https://x.com/rachidakiki