A man went into a restaurant in Paris with his girlfriend and ordered the 1928 Mouton.
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine, and poured a small amount in the glass for tasting.
The customer picked up the glass, smelled the wine, and put it down on the table with a thud. “This is not the 1928 Mouton.”
The waiter assured him it was, and soon there are another twenty people surrounding the table, including the chef and the manager trying to convince the man that the wine is the 1928 Mouton. Finally someone asked him how he knew that it is not the 1928 Mouton.
“My name is Phillipe de Rothschild, and I make the wine.”
Finally, the original waiter stepped forward and admitted that he poured the Clerc Milon 1928. “I could not bear to part with our last bottle of 1928 Mouton. You know Clerc Milon, it is in the same village as Mouton, you pick the grapes at the same time, the same cépage, you crush in the same way, you put them into similar barrels. You bottle at the same time, you even use eggs from the same chickens to fine them. The wines are the same, except for a small matter of geographic location.”
Rothschild beckons the waiter forward, and whispers to him, “When you return home tonight, ask your wife to remove her underwear. Put one finger in each opening, then smell both the fingers. Perhaps then you will understand what difference a small distance in geographic location makes.”