Tasting is how a house learns a spirit. A flight at home need not be theatrical: three small pours, the same glass shape for each, and enough quiet that the nose can work before the first sip.
Begin with blanco, unaged or barely rested, so the agave speaks first. Move next to reposado, where oak has begun to round the edges without burying them. Finish with añejo only if the evening still wants depth; its wood and spice will dominate anything that follows, so place it last on purpose.
Pour little. A flight is about comparison, not volume. Sip water between glasses, and write one line per pour: aroma, texture, finish. Those notes become the house's own map, more useful than any score stamped on a bottle.
Serve them neat, at cool room temperature. Salt and citrus belong to another ritual; here the point is to hear what the liquid is saying on its own. If guests join, keep the table spare: good light, no perfume competing with the glass, and no pressure to declare a favourite.
House of Diwani is built for evenings like this: measured, unhurried, and curious about craft. A flight is simply that curiosity poured in sequence.