Puni, the first Italian malt whisky, was born from a paradox. Its home in the Vinschgau valley, a place of snow-capped peaks and crisp alpine air, felt a world away from the misty glens of Scotland, yet its founders, the Ebenspergers, had a profound respect for the Scottish tradition. They built their distillery as a striking red brick cube, a modern homage to the region's ancient barns, and inside, they installed Forsyths pot stills, handcrafted in Rothes. But their whisky, a triple-grain spirit using local rye, was a product of its unique place—the "Italian Highlands."
Jonas Ebensperger, the master distiller, believed that the soul of Puni lay not just in its Scottish-made stills, but in the Alpine water and the extreme temperature swings of the valley. It was this terroir, this unique combination of place and process, that gave Puni its distinctive, fruity, and mellow character. But for a decade, Puni had been a secret for European and American connoisseurs. The next frontier, Jonas knew, was a market with a thirst for discovery and a passion for fine spirits that was unmatched anywhere in the world: India.
The opportunity came in the form of Rohan Verma, a young, ambitious importer from Mumbai. Rohan had built his reputation on bringing niche, artisanal brands to the Indian market, brands that told a story. He was tired of the predictable; he saw India's new generation of drinkers as "explorers," seeking whiskies that were as unique as their own stories. When a sample of Puni's "Nova" landed on his desk, its subtle notes of blood orange and ginger were unlike anything he'd ever tasted. He felt an instant connection, a quiet voice whispering of Alpine meadows and sun-drenched Italian hills.
Jonas invited Rohan to the Vinschgau valley, a place Rohan had only seen in pictures. Rohan arrived in a blur of city life, but the quiet majesty of the Alps quickly calmed his spirit. They walked through the rye fields, their golden heads bowing in the breeze, and watched the Puni River rush past the distillery. Jonas explained his philosophy, his meticulous process, and the way the changing seasons—from frigid winters to hot, dry summers—shaped the whisky's maturation. Rohan listened, captivated.
One evening, as a cool Alpine breeze settled over the valley, Jonas poured two glasses of the Puni "Alba," a whisky aged in Marsala wine casks and finished in Islay casks. He handed one to Rohan. "It is a bridge," Jonas said, raising his glass. "Between Italy and Scotland. But I hope it can be a bridge for you, too."
Rohan took a sip. The whisky was a revelation—the rich, nutty fruit of the Marsala was followed by a gentle whisper of smoke from the Islay cask, a combination that spoke of both tradition and daring innovation. It was a flavor profile that would resonate deeply with the Indian palate, which appreciated both complexity and a hint of spice. The peat, a character so often associated with Scotch, was not a dominant force but a harmonious note, a distant echo of another land. It was this subtlety, Rohan knew, that would be Puni's strength in India. It was a whisky with a story, but it was also a whisky that allowed the drinker to find their own story within it.
Back in Mumbai, Rohan launched Puni to a small, curated group of whisky aficionados. He told the story of the Italian Highlands and the Alpine-Indian connection, a narrative that resonated with a generation of consumers who were increasingly proud of their own culture while also being open to global influences. The initial response was an enthusiastic chorus of "Sláinte" and "Cin Cin," and within weeks, Puni had found a devoted following. The quiet craft of the Vinschgau valley had met the booming appreciation of India, proving that the best stories, like the finest whiskies, travel across mountains and oceans to find their true home.
