The Greek island of Sifnos is not merely a destination – it’s a sensorial experience. A culinary haven nestled within the Cyclades, it boasts a vibrant gastronomic tradition, paired with a collection of intimate, soul-stirring hotels. Life here unfolds with a gentle rhythm, imbued with sweetness, simplicity, and authenticity.

On most Greek islands, the first thing to strike the visitor is the light – refracted off sun-scorched cliffs, tinting the Aegean in hues of apricot and gold. But in Sifnos, it is the scent that first awakens the senses: the warm, spicy aroma of orange and anise biscuits drifting lazily through narrow, whitewashed alleyways; the fragrance of sage, oregano, and thyme lingering in wind-sculpted ravines; the tang of saltwater bursting from freshly opened sea urchins as their orange roe is lifted delicately with fingers still wet from the sea. {Booking now here}

In the summer, when you disembark from the ferry at the humble port of Kamares, you’re welcomed by a familiar, nostalgic perfume – grilled calamari sizzling in olive oil, mingling with coconut sunscreen carried on the breeze. If it’s early afternoon, I walk along the sun-warmed wooden promenade to Agia Marina beach, where the sand scorches your soles and the Aegean calls like an oasis. At Isalos beach bar, eggplant crisps and octopus bruschetta taste better when you’re barefoot, with salt crusting your skin and laughter carried on the wind. As dusk settles into a violet haze across the bay, I raise a cucumber margarita to the setting sun and my enduring love for this island.

Best Places to Eat & Drink in Sifnos

I first set eyes on Sifnos more than two decades ago, during a madcap summer escape with five girlfriends from five different corners of the world. We rented humble rooms perched atop the dramatic cliffs of Kastro – from a quirky old landlord with a passion for chewing raw garlic. Though the accommodation was stark, we woke each morning to the sun rising behind the Church of the Seven Martyrs, a tiny chapel clinging defiantly to a rocky outcrop far below, seemingly floating above the sea. The nearby bar, aptly named Kavos Sunrise, was manned by a local character in tiny denim shorts and a Che Guevara bandana, obsessed with Cuba and reggae. There we drank rum and coke until dawn, stumbling home past the village bakery to pick up warm, flaky pies filled with feta and wild greens.

That bakery is gone now, but Kavos Sunrise remains – and the pile of empty Havana Club bottles behind the bar only grows taller. A little further along the cliffside path, a new treasure has emerged: Loggia, a quietly stylish wine bar perched like a secret. There, I sit on a whitewashed ledge, sipping biodynamic Greek wine, nibbling local cheeses, and listening to vinyl tunes spin through the soft Aegean breeze. Kastro itself feels timeless – the kind of place that seems to pause between decades, untouched by trends or time.

The rest of Sifnos, though not immune to change, has retained its essence. A few more cars, a handful of modern villas hidden among the terraced hills, a scattering of designer restaurants – but the island’s soul remains raw and tranquil. Now, I stay at Verina Astra, a boutique hotel that feels like a sanctuary, with sixteen suites that exhale calmness. From my terrace, I gaze out across sky and sea, over a cascade of white buildings tumbling down a distant hill, and below, the unmistakable blue dome of a monastery hovering above a jade-green cove. It’s a place where days unfold barefoot – from bed to infinity pool, to the Elemis spa, and on to Bostani, the hotel’s restaurant and bar surrounded by a lush kitchen garden that supplies its herbs and vegetables. Chefs here craft Mediterranean dishes with a sense of place and purpose. The hotel’s soul is embodied by its owners, Miltos Salemis and Isidora Chandeli – a radiant couple who carry Sifnos in their hearts, and who have become cherished friends.

Here, with the buzzing of cicadas in the air and the sun hanging low over the Aegean, I sink into the unhurried rhythm of island life. Yet just five minutes away lies Artemonas, arguably the most beautiful village on Sifnos. Visit at twilight and you’ll find a scene from another era: barefoot children dart through alleyways; grandmothers swap stories while sitting on stone steps lined with pots of red geraniums; elderly men gather capers from stone walls, the plants’ purple blossoms exploding from every crevice.

Most evenings, I begin with a carafe of tsipouro, the fiery grape-based spirit, and a plate of meze at Mosaico, a charming, family-run ouzeri. On some nights, local musicians play unannounced, strumming bouzouki tunes as you sample crisp fennel fritters, Greek salad crowned with rich, creamy xinomizithra, and slow-baked orzo with smoked pork and tender cuttlefish. Painted wooden chairs are always filled with locals, chatting in low voices and sharing laughter as the sun fades away.

After dinner, I never skip Theodorou’s Sweet Shop – a Sifnian institution dating back to 1933. Everything is still prepared the traditional way: in copper pots over a wood fire. Their amygdalota – almond cookies shaped like ancient Roman noses – are impossibly addictive. Their nougat, sugar-coated bergamot jellies, and brittle wafers are measured out on antique scales behind a powder-blue counter. Come in the morning, and you might witness artisans forming bourekia – delicate pastry parcels filled with almonds, honey, cinnamon, and cloves – with the precision of muscle memory developed over a lifetime.

Sifnos’ culinary legacy stems from Nikolaos Tselementes, a native son who authored the first official Greek cookbook in 1910. Ironically, he abandoned the island’s humble, rustic fare in favor of elaborate dishes influenced by his training in Vienna and New York. He dismissed garlic and olive oil as relics of Ottoman cuisine, championing béchamel sauces and jellied meats instead. Though his name became synonymous with the cookbook itself, his native island never embraced his culinary elitism – and thankfully, still clings to its own traditions.

Traditional Sifnian recipes are slow-cooked in terracotta pots, made from the same red clay that has sustained the island’s famed ceramic tradition for centuries. Dozens of potteries once lined the coast, their wares ferried to markets across the Mediterranean. One of the few surviving studios is Atsonios, nestled by the bay of Vathi. Owner Antonis Atsonios and his son still craft ceramic bowls with signature white motifs in a dusty, light-filled workshop. Until 1995, when the road and electricity arrived in Vathi, their pottery was fired in a wood-burning kiln from 1870 – which still works to this day.

The dishes from Atsonios are used every day at Manoli, a tavern on the beach where everything is made from scratch, using ingredients from the owner’s garden or neighboring farms. Under the shade of tamarisk trees, Stelios Neroutsos and his wife Margarita taught me how to prepare mastello – lamb soaked in red wine, slow-roasted over vine branches – and revithokeftedes, chickpea fritters spiced with mint and marjoram.

Chickpeas, in fact, are the soul of the Sifnian kitchen. Sunday lunch is often revithada, chickpeas baked overnight in clay pots. One Saturday evening, Miltos brought me to his neighbor Angeliki’s home. With a warm smile, she welcomed us into her garden where villagers were arriving, carrying their skepastaria – squat earthenware pots filled with chickpeas, onions, and oil – to place them in her covered wood oven. The next morning, after church, everyone returned to collect their blackened pots, each one etched with initials. When they were gone, Angeliki opened hers, breaking the flour-and-water seal to reveal chickpeas simmered to creamy perfection. With just a squeeze of lemon juice, it was the most delicious soup I’ve ever tasted. Her secret? Rainwater.

The landscape of Sifnos is shaped by centuries of agriculture. The island is veined with dry-stone terraces and ancient footpaths laid by shepherds and farmers. Today, more than 100km of these trails have been marked, leading hikers past dovecotes, mountain monasteries, and coves where the only sound is the lapping of the sea.

At Glyfo, a herd of goats once wandered down for a drink while I swam. At Heronissos, after a steep hike, I stumbled into the last working pottery in the area, run by the Depastas family. In Vroulidia, after a hair-raising descent, I rewarded myself with a cold beer, sun-dried mackerel, samphire salad, and chickpea croquettes at a beach tavern where even the wi-fi was marked by a scrawled “cosmote edo” (signal here) on a wooden chair.

The finest meal I’ve ever had on Sifnos was at Exambela, the sleepy village where Tselementes was born. Local artist Alberto Bourdeth and his radiant wife Zoe cooked dishes so beautiful they felt like edible paintings: beetroot mousse, pillow-soft taramasalata with pink pepper, dill-studded roast goat, and yogurt topped with apricots, pistachio praline, and thyme blossoms.

At Cantina, chef Giorgos Samoilis, once a molecular biologist, transforms humble ingredients into miracles. Fava beans become savory pancakes laced with greens and cheese; seaweed-smoked brisket is served with leftover sourdough ice cream. The restaurant – perched on the pebbled beach of Seralia in a crooked stone hut – feels like it belongs to the earth and sea alike.

At Platis Gialos, long and shallow, lined with eateries and beach bars, you may even spot Tom Hanks dining at Omega 3, a fish-and-wine bar where chef Samoilis began by experimenting with a friend’s fresh catches. Now, diners savor sashimi, samphire salads, and ceviche under a shaded pergola.

And when Saturday night arrives, all of Sifnos flocks to Apollonia, the lively hilltop capital. Couples browse beaded sandals in Colores, sip cocktails on rooftops, and toast the night with rakomelo (grappa with honey and cloves) at O Drakakis, a timeless café opened in 1887. For me, nothing beats Botzi, a bar that only truly awakens after midnight – smoky, unfiltered, and brimming with Afro-Cuban rhythms. It reminds me of who I was here 25 years ago – young, unguarded, and free.