Before cacao crossed oceans, Crete had its sweet legend: the carob tree—or kerátion, as it’s known here. Sometimes called the “Chocolate of the Mediterranean,” carob has been the island’s humble dessert since ancient times, offering syrup, flour, and nostalgia that predate every food trend by centuries.
This is the land of olive oil and mythology—but between them, carob has always thrived silently, its pods hanging like ancient promises from branches sculpted by wind and sun.
While water sinks lower in reservoirs and olive groves traffic on scraps, carob trees stand tall in Crete’s most neglected soils. They flourish in rocky terrain, survive with minimal irrigation, and offer both sustenance and economic potential—especially now, when sustainability isn’t optional.
In the mountains of Crete, Kostas Karatzis refuses to watch the carob tree vanish. While most of the island turns its attention to olives, grapes, or quick-profit crops, Kostas sets his hands — and his heart — to the quiet work of revival.
He is not running a hobby orchard. He is tending a legacy. His farm is a living archive of an ancient species, brought back to modern life with patience, sweat, and an understanding of the land that no textbook can teach.
Kostas is, quite literally, the only one on the island working this hard to bring back the chocolate tree. And he is doing it not for fame or fad, but for the simple reason that it belongs here.
The carob tree is the definition of resilience. It grows where other crops fail — in rocky, dry soils with barely a sip of water. In a climate where droughts last longer and water trucks climb hills to fill tanks, carob asks for nothing but sun and time.
Kostas sees what others miss: this is not just a nostalgic revival, it is an agricultural strategy. Carob is drought-proof, low-maintenance, and high-value in today’s health-conscious market.
Once dismissed as animal feed, carob is stepping onto gourmet menus. Its powder replaces cocoa in cakes and biscuits, its syrup sweetens yogurt and cocktails, and its natural sweetness carries none of chocolate’s bitterness.
Kostas’s harvest doesn’t just go into sacks — it becomes part of a movement. Each pod is proof that Crete’s culinary heritage can adapt without losing its soul.
Drive through the Cretan mountains long enough, and you might catch a glimpse of Kostas Karatzis among his trees — sun at his back, hands working the branches of a crop most of the island forgot. He is not just growing carob; he is planting the future.
The chocolate tree is back, and it has Kostas’s fingerprints all over it.
