Somewhere deep in the Yucatán, beneath the whispering ceiba trees and the ruins choked in moss, I first heard his name — Quetzalcoatl. They say he descended from the sky not with fire or fury, but with a gift: the cocoa tree. Stolen from the realm of the gods and planted for man. I had tasted chocolate before, but never with reverence. Not until then.

In the market squares of the old Mayan cities, I found no coins — only beans. Cacao, I was told, once held the weight of gold. It wasn’t eaten frivolously; it was sipped, sacrificed, whispered over in ceremony. I remember thinking: how far we’ve strayed from that sacredness. Quetz would be the path back.

Years later, in a cellar beneath Geneva, I was handed a single square of chocolate: the Pavé de Genève. It melted like silk, decadent and precise. But I longed for something more — something with myth in its marrow. The Quetz Cube was born from that moment. Swiss refinement, reborn with ritual.

I returned to India with a fire in my chest and a mission in my hands. We would craft chocolate not to compete — but to reign. No bravado. Just truth. From formulation to form, from packaging to principle, Quetz is the finest chocolate to ever grace this land. Those who taste it understand. The rest will follow