A man goes to the Lucas Carlton in Paris with his girlfriend and
orders the 1928 Mouton. The waiter returns with a bottle full of wine,
pours a small amount in the glass for tasting.
The customer picks up the glass, smells the wine, and puts it down on
the table with a thud. "This is not the 1928 Mouton."
The waiter assures him it is, and soon there is another twenty people
surrounding the table including the chef and the manager of the hotel
trying to convince the man that the wine is the 1928 Mouton. Finally
someone asks him how he knows that it is not the 1928 Mouton.
"My name is Phillipe de Rothschid, and I make the wine."
Finally the original waiter steps forward and admits that he poured
the Clerc Milon 1928. "I could not bear to part with our last bottle
of 1928Mouton.
You know Clerc Milon, it is in the same village as Mouton, you pick the
grapes at the same time, the same cepage, 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."
Rothschid beckons the waiter forward, and whispers to him,
"When you
return home tonight, ask your girlfriend to remove her underwear. Put
one finger in one opening, another in the other, and smell both the
fingers. You will understand what difference a small distance of
geographic location makes." 
