The aged wine-maker, renown for his decidedly trendy product, lay dying. His only son appeared at his bedside.
"My boy," the old fellow began, "soon I shall be no more. The icy hand of death is already upon me. But when I go, I want you to know that I am leaving you my business."
"Thank you, Papa."
"There is one trade secret you must know," the old man continued, his voice fading.
"What is that, Papa?"
"You have seen me pour water into the barrels, and you may have formed the idea that wine is all water. This is not so, my son."
The dying man's voice trailed off and the boy placed an ear directly in front of his lips.
"Please, Papa," he implored, "don't leave with the secret locked in your heart. Just whisper it; I'll hear you."
The wine-maker stirred, and then in a scarcely audible voice he gave his counsel,
"To each barrel of water you must always add two, perhaps three grapes ..."