Sarcasm and satire have only superficially similar.
The thing with satire is to create incongruity between the package and its contents.
Some dishevelled fellow shows up, claims he's a world-class chef from Syria, and offers to cook you a five-star dinner in exchange for his own meal. He doesn't look especially Syrian. And you can't make out his accent.
So you say, "well, I'm not sure whether to believe you. I made this pate yesterday, and I'd like your opinion. Just one second." Then you duck around the corner, dip a knife into the kitty litter box, smoosh the fresh excavation onto a nice Wheat Thin that Jr. left uneaten on his plate after dropping it on the garage floor (use the dishwasher, people!), which you then—in a flash of inspiration—decorate with two fish eyes from the fish carcass in the fridge that is now mired in cold gelatin and really should have been turned into fish stock three days ago. Oh, what the heck—let's do this right!—so you add a tablespoon slab of the aging fish gelatin.
At this point, it looks like fancy French cooking (looks can be deceiving). It really looks like French cooking when you extend it with the utmost graciousness on your whitest French serving cloth.
"Syrian chef" picks it up, opens his mouth, slides it trustingly under his nostrils, and is about to bite down, then freezes in an eyebrow-raising display of alarm and disgust.
"Don't be angry! I had to make sure. Do you still want to cook dinner? Oh well, better luck next time. "
"Sheesh. I think he called me a racist bastard in some foreign gibberish. Did he really mean it? Surely he could see my predicament and my efficient solution. Hmmm. I suppose it did look a lot like I was serving him shit on a cracker, Gallic style, from his point of view."
Sarcasm is exactly the same thing, except you can't be bothered with the cracker, the fish eyes, the extra slab of fish gelatin, or the white napkin. You just hold up a dry cat turd with your bare fingers and call it a cheesy, because you really wouldn't want to have to eat a fancy dinner prepared by the colour blind, not even if he really was a great chef in his own land.