“Do you prefer Graviera?” I asked a shepherd near Psiloritis.
He shook his head.
“Graviera is for selling. Xinomyzithra is for us.”
“And anthotyro?”
“That one is for the children. And for the women. It is soft like them.” He winked. “But for me, give me staka with bread, and I need nothing else.”
Crete is an island that smells of thyme, raki, and cheese. Tourists usually learn one word — Graviera — the golden wheel on every menu, the polite cheese that goes well with everything. But Graviera is only the cover of the book. Turn the pages and you will find xinomyzithra, anthotyro, kefalotyri, malaka, staka, and others, each with its own voice, its own mischief, its own bite.
Step into a mountain village and you will see it. A shepherd leaning over a steaming cauldron, stirring curds with a wooden ladle. The goats outside shake their bells, demanding attention. Inside the shed, the air smells like sour milk, wood smoke, and patience. This is where Cretan cheeses are born, not in neat plastic wrappers but in stone huts where milk still meets fire.
Xinomyzithra the Tangy Soul
Ask any grandmother about cheese, and her eyes light up: xinomyzithra. Tangy, sour, playful, made from the whey of sheep or goat milk. It is white and crumbly, more like a memory of yogurt than a cousin of Graviera.
Cretans spread it on bread, drizzle it with honey, or throw it in pies. In tavernas, it always comes free at the end of the meal, like an encore nobody asked for but everybody loves. Pair it with a glass of raki, and suddenly you are gossiping louder than you meant to.
Old men joke: “Xinomyzithra is the cheese that makes you argue with your neighbor, but you forgive him before the raki runs out.”
Anthotyro the Gentle Cloud
If xinomyzithra is sharp and quick, anthotyro is soft and dreamy. Made from whey and a little milk, its name means “flower cheese.” Young anthotyro crumbles sweetly on the tongue, as if the goats had been chewing chamomile and singing lullabies.
It fills kalitsounia pastries, pairs with fruit, and when drizzled with honey, it becomes dessert worthy of Zeus. Shepherds call it the cheese of peace.
“Xinomyzithra makes you talk, anthotyro makes you quiet,” says a villager in Anogeia. “With anthotyro, you lean back and smile. Then you nap.”
But let anthotyro age, and it surprises you. It grows firmer, saltier, nutty, like a quiet child who grew up to have opinions. For me, aged anthotyro is the treasure — still carrying the scent of herbs, but with the wisdom of time.
Kefalotyri and the Hard Bunch
Crete also has its tough cheeses, the ones you cut with a knife that complains. Kefalotyri is one of them — salty, firm, and unapologetic. It is grated over pasta, eaten with bread, or gnawed with a glass of wine. Villagers call it “the cheese that makes you thirsty,” which is another way of saying it demands company with alcohol.
Then there is touloumotyri, matured in skins, with a smell so strong it could chase the cats out of a village. Malaka, on the other hand, is a fresh curd cheese eaten warm, soft as a pillow. And staka, that glorious oddity, is not really a cheese but a cream cooked with flour, spread thick on bread or served with eggs. Heavy, sinful, unforgettable.
Every region has its secrets. In Chania, you may find a shepherd who swears his malaka is the best. In Lassithi, they guard recipes for staka like holy relics. Cheese in Crete is like dialect — every village adds a twist.
Cutting the Cheese
Yes, Cretans cut the cheese. They cut it with knives, with laughter, with jokes around the kafeneio table. A tourist once asked a shepherd what cheese he was eating. “The one my goats agreed to make this week,” he replied.
Cheese is not just food, it is humor. Children tease each other about malaka (which also means “idiot” in Greek). Guests are dared to eat staka without falling asleep. And somewhere, someone is always arguing about whether Graviera is overrated.
Cheese and Myth
Honey and cheese, the twin foods of Crete. Zeus himself, hidden in a cave as an infant, grew strong on Amalthea’s milk. The gods gave shepherds the art of curdling. And still, in some villages, the first curds of the year are sprinkled on the ground “for the earth,” a silent thank you to whoever listens.
Cheese is milk turned permanent. Milk spoils in a day, but cheese lasts through winter. To make cheese is to cheat time, to hold the mountain’s gift longer. That is why shepherds say, “Milk is a visit, cheese is a marriage.”
At Easter, cheese pastries appear in baskets, gifts to neighbors. At weddings, cheese is served with honey, symbol of sweetness and fertility. At funerals, cheese pies are sometimes baked, because life without cheese would be no life at all.
Cheese Today
Crete produces thousands of tons of cheese each year. Graviera dominates the shelves, but xinomyzithra, anthotyro, kefalotyri, and others keep villages fed. PDO labels protect them, but villagers roll their eyes at paperwork. “We were making cheese before Brussels was born,” a farmer mutters.
Festivals celebrate cheese with music, dance, and endless tasting. In Anogeia, women fold pies as lyra players sing. In Sfakia, cheese is stacked in towers on long tables. In Rethymno, children dip bread into fresh anthotyro while their parents argue over which village makes the best staka.
Tourists are surprised. They come for Graviera and leave dreaming of a spoonful of xinomyzithra or a pastry filled with anthotyro. Cheese becomes a discovery, a secret souvenir carried in memory, if not in luggage.
Crete’s cheeses are more than Graviera. They are sour and sweet, soft and hard, humble and proud. They are jokes and arguments, offerings and meals, history and gossip. From xinomyzithra to anthotyro, from kefalotyri to staka, each tells the story of goats on rocky hills, of milk steaming in dawn air, of grandmothers bent over wooden spoons.
For me, the heart belongs to aged anthotyro. Mild when young, but with time it deepens into something rich, nutty, and wise, still carrying the scent of spring herbs. A cheese that feels like home.
Kefalotyri, with its sharp saltiness, stands on the other side of the table — firm, brash, demanding a sip of raki. Together they remind me of Crete itself, a place of contrasts. Soft and gentle, hard and proud, all part of the same mountain song.
