My friend Mark sent me this oldie but goodie:
A man goes to the famous Lucas Carton restaurant in Paris with a woman and orders the 1928 Mouton. The waiter brings a bottle and pours a little in the glass for tasting.
The customer picks up the glass, takes a sniff, and puts it down with a thud. “This is not the 1928 Mouton.”
The waiter assures him it is, and soon there are twenty people surrounding the table, including the chef and the manager, trying to convince the man that the wine is indeed the 1928 Mouton.
“My name is Phillippe de Rothschild. I make the wine,” the man says.
The wine waiter steps forward and admits that he brought a 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 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, and whispers to him, “When you go home tonight, ask your girlfriend to remove her underwear. Put one finger in one opening, another finger in the other, and smell both fingers. You will understand what difference a small distance in geographic location makes.”