Santorini still sells the classic postcard: white-washed terraces, cobalt domes and a caldera that swallows the sun each night. Yet the island’s most interesting story now plays out on the plate. Volcanic soil laced with ash and salt sharpens assyrtiko grapes, fava beans, white eggplant and improbably sweet cherry tomatoes. Chefs raised here, or drawn here, treat that geology as both inheritance and directive, keeping the flavors honest while letting technique do the editing.

Many dining rooms are literally tunneled into the cliff face. Inside, décor is pared back: chalk-white walls, a flash of brass, perhaps a single amphora, all reminding you that the real theater is outside the window and on the fork. Menus read sparely but eat expansively: octopus brushed with vinsanto glaze; tomato tartare brightened by pickled caper leaf; fava purée aerated until it feels like sea mist.

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