A man goes to the Lucas Carlton, in Paris, with his girlfriend and orders the 1928 Mouton. The waiter returns with a decanter 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, it is not the 1928 Mouton.
- "My name is Phillipe de Rothschild, and I made the wine."
Consternation. Finally the original waiter steps forward and admit that he poured the Clerc Milon 1928.
- "I could not bear to part with our last bottle of 1928 Mouton. You own 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."
Rothschild 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 the difference that a small matter of geographic location will give." |
