This one is rooted in Kefalonia’s rugged, wild intelligence — a place where extremes coexist with ancient Greek island simplicity, shaped by physical limits — caves, steep inclines, tight roads, deep blue sea — and a way of life that carries edge and interest despite its pared-down nature. This is milky, earthy jaggedness. One quick, sharp memory anchors this salt: stuck on a narrow village road as herds of sheep engulf everything — unbothered, purposeful, utterly unhurried. The feta — ironically goat, despite the sheep of the story, chosen for Bulgarian style creaminess, engulfs the salt creating a tangy milky lactic, saline foundation that kind of traps everything else pretty pleasantly. A barely-there kiss of island honey comforts — hardly. Herbs mingle plentifully and potently in a messy, untamed organization. Bitter chicory greens and wilder herbs assert a hard, feral edge, a reminder this isn’t a polished, prissy Santorini salt. It’s Kefalonia — simple, wild and orderly at once. Hard and gentle. Aromatic, but composed. Intensity living comfortably alongside normalcy. Teeny flecks of kalamata olives, soaked in feta bring and chopped to oblivion, blanket the salt, pulling on the country’s ancient gravity — a birthplace of new ideas shaped not by luxury, but by daily doing. This one wants you choose something other than the obvious or safe, much like choosing Kefalonia. It does excel at safe: beans, potatoes, sautéed greens. Use boldly on a porterhouse steak. Sausage pasta, chicory salad with citrus. On bread, it’s a direct reminder of what wild Kefalonia tastes like.