The Green Lie: When Sustainability Becomes Nothing More Than Marketing

There is a pivotal point on the map of the modern restaurant landscape—straddling the line between ecological guilt and the commodification of ethics—where the so-called “farm-to-table” concept takes root. Once an obvious truth, it has now become a strategically impressive marketing tool — as if someone has suddenly discovered that food… grows naturally. And, in a bold move, decided to elevate it to premium status.
 
Between a loaf of bread made with at least 150-year-old sourdough and a sepia-toned photograph of a field, the obvious has become a gourmet experience. Ideology. A dish. Not because the ingredients changed, but because we live in a time where even a tomato must have a backstory — otherwise, it’s not worth eating. Who picked it? What music was playing? How did the chef feel when he saw it on the basket? If it doesn’t have a narrative arc — if it’s not “from our small partner in sunny Pieria” — then it’s just… food. And that’s not enough. All well and good, but only if it’s true.

I’m not talking about the authentic, honest, “soil and sweat” food made by chefs, farmers, or foragers — the kind that truly deserves attention. I’m referring to the other. The convenient. The televised. The Instagrammable. The “easy” — the thing that exists to make you feel better without changing anything.

Honestly, it’s become an eyesore. And I’m not speaking only about Greece. Today, “farm to table” isn’t really about practice — it’s branding. A small garden set up behind the restaurant, with three lettuces, a pot of mint, and a “connection to the earth” that lasts no longer than the foam on a cappuccino. And all of this is, of course, for the “green star.”

It’s no longer a choice of sustainability — it’s a marketing tool. The facade of a system that doesn’t want to change anything, just to appear as if it does. A theatrical display, dimly lit and with a high markup. “Sustainable cuisine,” they say. “From the farm straight to your plate.” But which farm? Your aunt’s, where she planted two rosemary sprigs in a clay pot — and now you’re taking pictures to claim you’re “doing” green gastronomy?

Before the chefs even explained what “farm to table” means, my grandmother was already doing it — without knowing it. I didn’t expect to say this, but that’s just how it was. In the Greek countryside, “farm to table” was simply how you ate. If you wanted lettuce, you went out and picked it yourself. If you wanted an egg, you collected it from the hen in the yard. And when your mother said, “Eat the potato, it’s from the farm,” she wasn’t branding — she was telling the truth.

Personally, I, who didn`t grow up in Versailles, lived those days. People gathering herbs from the mountain didn’t even know what “organic” meant — because they didn’t need to.

In Greece, “farm to table” has never been a movement. It was everyday life. But that way of living was disdained, forgotten, and is now being repackaged as gourmet marketing for our guilty brunches. It’s the reality of villages, rediscovered in the last 30 years by some as if they’d found the culinary fire itself — assuming they’d discovered the secret of gastronomic revolution.

Farm to table has become the new moral armour — the neat excuse for restaurants trying to sweep their culinary guilt under the rug with a couple of lettuces and a goat that appears for a photo every third Thursday. It’s not that we want to eat clean — we want it to look like we do.

Some chefs confuse sustainability with the need to appear exclusive. They believe that hanging three cobs of corn above the bar and adding a few wooden tables will earn them praise from Michelin. They think the Green Star is a recognition of a setting, not substance.

Shifting focus for a moment to our own scene.

This year, at the FNL Best Restaurant Awards, we did something we announced a year earlier — and honestly, it could easily have just remained a press release. We introduced the Special Award for Sustainability for the first time. And yes, we had the freedom to do it... delicately: to choose a “green” restaurant with the right profile, feature it on stage, and convey the message with smiles and applause. But that would have been just another beautiful moment, with no follow-up. And that’s not how we operate.

In contrast, we partnered with Blue Marble — not just as our gold sponsor at the awards, but as true collaborators. A company that doesn’t just sell “ideas,” but tangible actions: certified by the Gold Standard Foundation for creating and managing CO₂ engagement programmes, with a focus on substance rather than image. They are committed to genuine accountability, accurately measuring actual energy use and environmental impact.

Together, we designed a questionnaire that wasn’t just another Excel sheet — it was a mirror: a tool for self-awareness, not only for the judging panel but for every restaurant brave enough to answer honestly. Because change doesn’t start with good intentions; it begins with recognising where you stand and what you’re willing to see.

This year, the restaurant of Ktima Kyri Gianni in Naoussa took home the award — deservedly, without any caveats or fine print.

But let’s not paint everything with the same brush. Amidst this ocean of rhetoric and eco-friendly aesthetics, there are those who don’t shout about it. They don’t sell it. They don’t stage it. They simply live it. They cook connected to their land — not because it’s trending, but because it’s an inherent truth. The more genuine the practice, the less storytelling it needs.

There are excellent chefs who truly support farm-to-table — without campaigns, empty words, or hashtags. For them, farm-to-table isn’t a strategy; it’s the only way to cook. Not for awards, not for applause — but to honour the sacred, the small, the everyday: the person sitting at the table.

The Michelin guide might understand it. Or maybe not. The crowd might appreciate it. Or maybe they won’t. But the earth knows — it doesn’t need an explanation. These genuine chefs — the true ones — won’t shout about it or seek recognition. Still, they keep the kitchen standing; they are its backbone. The difference between honest food and just packaging it as something special.

They don’t wait for a star from Michelin, because they carry something much heavier inside — the certainty that they haven’t deceived anyone, not even for a moment. And in a world full of façades, that’s the greatest luxury of all. It’s the chef who, when they serve you, looks you in the eye and says: “This is it. No lies. No staging. No second-guessing.”

And in that moment, you don’t need a Green Star — because the only star that truly counts is the one you taste, the star of genuine truth on your palate when authenticity finally reveals itself.