Pass me the Chateau d'Iquem, Jeeves

There used to be a series on TV called Tales of the Unexpected. I remember one episode where the denouement consisted of the major domo to an aristocrat confessing that over many years he had served cheap plonk to his master and not the great vintage wines which his master believed he was drinking. Why? Because, according to the faithful and very scornful servant, his master "wouldn't know the difference". And why was that? Because the master always put an oil and vinegar dressing on his salad, so how could he possibly judge the wine?
Well, that explains why I, a side-salad man, have drunk cheap plonk ever since I saw that episode. That, and the fact that I am a bum whose criterion is not how good it is, but whether there is enough of it to see me through the evening.
I mean, there's such a thing as standards.