Loukoumades and Lava: how Santorini’s Flavours changed the way I see Life

It all started with a coffee. Not just any coffee—this was Greek coffee, thick and earthy, served in a tiny cup in the square of Firostefani, a quiet village just north of the bustling capital, Fira. I didn’t know then that what I was really about to taste was a philosophy. A rhythm. A way of life.

I’d signed up for the Santorini Food Tour because I love food, yes, but also because I was tired. Tired of rushing through places, ticking boxes. I wanted to feel something real. And somehow, Santorini—with its volcanic cliffs and postcard-perfect views—still seemed to hold something behind the image. Something I could reach, if I walked slower, listened more, and ate with purpose.

Our guide was local, friendly, and refreshingly unpolished—like someone who’d grown up next to the olive trees and carried the wind of the island in his voice. He greeted us like old friends, handed us our coffee, and said, “Today you eat the truth.”

The walk began with pies. Not just any pies—tiropita, flaky and warm, filled with sharp, salty cheese. The kind of breakfast that doesn’t apologize. We stood on the caldera edge, just chewing, the volcano in front of us like some ancient reminder that time moves in explosions and silences. That beauty, like flavour, often comes from fire.

As we followed the footpath from Firostefani to Fira, I noticed something: we weren't tourists anymore. We were guests. At every stop, someone waved, poured us something, or passed us a plate with a smile and a story. A quick glass of local beer felt like a celebration. Olive oil, gold-green and peppery, was tasted the way you’d taste wine—slowly, reverently. And then there was souvlaki, the street food to end all street foods, handed to us from a grizzled man who knew that one bite of well-marinated meat in a warm pita could change your afternoon, maybe even your outlook on simplicity.

Fira, for all its fame, felt different when seen through narrow alleyways and food stalls. This wasn’t the Santorini of cruise ships and Instagram. It was the Santorini of scent and smoke, of hands kneading dough and grills sizzling under linen canopies. It was alive, and grounded, and generous.

We ended the tour with loukoumades—golden puffs of fried dough, drizzled with honey and dusted with cinnamon. The kind of sweetness that asks nothing of you except to be present. Sitting there with sticky fingers and a view of the volcano, I realized this wasn’t just about food. It was about the people who made it, the land that grew it, and the pace at which you consume both.

This is what I took home with me: the Greek way is not hurried. It’s not glossy. It’s grounded in something older than modern tourism—something that survives through taste, through talk, through the way a mother teaches her child to stir the pot and not just watch the clock. In Santorini, they don’t serve food to impress. They serve it to connect. To nourish. To remind you.

And yes, it reminded me. That I’ve been overcomplicating things. That a good day can be made of just three things: good company, good food, and a view. That sitting still isn’t laziness—it’s wisdom. That flavour takes time, and so does meaning.

Back home, I cook more. I eat slower. I take my morning coffee outside, even if the view isn’t a caldera. I started asking my neighbours about their recipes. I listen longer when people talk. I look at olive oil differently—like it holds a bit of sun. And when I fry anything, I think of those loukoumades, and I smile.

If you ever go to Santorini, go for the views, yes—but stay for the flavours. Follow the path that smells like cinnamon and thyme. Take the food tour. Taste the truth.

Take-Away Tips:

• Begin your tour with an open mind and an empty stomach—what you eat may also feed your thoughts

• Ask questions; Greek cooks love to share the why behind the what

• Walk slowly—Santorini’s beauty isn’t just in its views, but in its human encounters

• Don’t skip the loukoumades—they’re a bite-sized lesson in joy

• Take the local rhythm home with you; it’s a souvenir you won’t find in shops