When the call came in, I had shit on my hands. I’m speaking literally here, standing atop Quarry Rock in North Vancouver, tomato-faced and lathered with sweat after a hurried hike. My sleeping infant daughter had somehow just managed to relieve herself on the outside of her diaper – real assassination-of-JFK stuff, a second pooper on the grassy knoll.

Would I like to spend a day squiring a Rolls about town? Would I ever: a few short days later and I’m peering through the steering wheel spokes of a vehicle that is as quintessentially British as Queen Victoria herself.

Which is to say, a big fat German with a limited sense of humour.

Yes, peel back the aluminium bodywork of this eight-horse gilded royal stage-coach to find a beating twelve-cylinder heart built by a company whose previous efforts once propelled Junkers over London’s East End to blast chirrupy Cockneys into smithereens. That was then, this is now.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom’s V-12 might share architecture with the boorish seven-series BMW, but it does so in the same way that the House of Hanover once sent over George I to assist the ruling families of Britain in breeding a race of men composed entirely of teeth, charisma and forehead. Which eugenics program, by the way, is going rather swimmingly.

This is a pan-European vehicle – the aluminium space frame is forged in Norway, machined in Denmark, welded in Germany and then shipped off to jolly old Blighty for final assembly. Each Roller is built to client specification in the Goodwood factory, a few miles from the racing circuit of the same name, once the playground of well-heeled gentleman racers.

Vancouver can boast the largest number of long-wheelbase Rolls-Royce Phantoms anywhere in North America, though you’d not often see one. These sit on the road the way one of Edward I’s conqueror’s castles stand on the Welsh countryside – huge, dark, brooding things with their own gravity well of opulence; mirror images of the machines that ferry their Pacific Rim masters in whisper-silence past factories, tenements, the noisy, dirty, roiling mass of low-caste humanity. You might not be able to hear the clock on the dash anymore, but if you listen closely, you can hear groans of the workers that bear the weight of these monstrosities on their back, churning out an endless stream of cheap consumer products for our relentless Western appetite.

On the other hand, the Phantom Drophead coupe is meant to be a much less serious pleasure yacht for the acceptably wealthy. You know, Bertie Wooster, Jay Gatsby – that sort of thing. In fact, when I show up at the local dealership carrying a camera and wearing a seven-dollar button-down, the Drophead is just leaving on a test-drive with an actual Count. I meet the man briefly later and he seems all charm and polish and breeding and disinclined to bite anyone on the neck or to cackle with joy while tallying up a number of unconvincing bat puppets.

Here are the changes for the now decade-old Phantom, if you care, which you probably don’t. The transmission is now replaced with an eight-speed BMW unit, the headlights have been changed out for slitted LED units, and the front grille is now hewn from a single piece of stainless steel – the better with which to mow down pheasants peasants, one assumes.

Minor tweaks, to be sure, but the improvement is really quite marked. The old round headlights for the previous generation car always made the car look like Thomas the Tank Engine’s derpiest friend – as though someone had stuck wide-spaced googly eyes on the Flying Scotsman. Now though, the Series II has the face of a Monarch, even if the royal in question is, you know, a bit Henry-VIII-ish.

Gazing out over the polished prow, nose, beak, bowsprit, snout, proboscis – anything to avoid the Conneticut-accented “bonnet” with which the RR PR lady sharply corrected my “hood” – I can’t help but feel that I’m about to engage in the largest single act of fronting since Vanilla Ice pretended to sling rock. There is no way I could ever conceive of affording a half-million-dollar machine like this. Six or seven generations ago, my ancestors wouldn’t even have been allowed to own a horse worth more than five pounds.

Automotive writing can already be weird this way: you catch yourself saying things like, “Oh, but I’d rather have the Porsche,” when really, I’d have the Subaru. And I’d buy it second-hand. However, poncing about in a gleaming white Rolls is on another plane of feigned success entirely.

It’s a bit like being handed the Crown Jewels for a day – the immediate visceral response is to do something wildly inappropriate. I am instantly filled with the urge to go directly to the nearest McDonald’s drive-through and ask for Grey Poupon on my Chicken McNuggets. Instead, it being such a sunny afternoon, I go for a sail. Er, drive.

“Smooth” is, as the old Monty Python skit goes, an inadequate description of the sweetmeat. This machine glides like a dowager Duchess yet accelerates like Prince Phillip hearing a liquor cabinet open. Apply some gentle pressure with your right foot and feel the nose lift slightly – both yours and the car’s. There’s a sense of great inertia, of hundreds of years of privilege and heritage, a great heavy, ponderous mass like a post-lunch House of Lords.

Of course, this being the Rolls one buys if one is interested in driving, there is a sport button on the steering wheel. It’s quite prominent, and labelled proudly with a burnished S and – well imagine you were on a bus tour and came around a corner to find that someone had fitted Westminster Abbey with anti-roll bars and an enormous spoiler. It’s as farcical as, oh I don’t know, strange women lying around in ponds distributin’ swords.

Elsewhere the cabin is – it’s whatever you want it to be, really. Rolls-Royce’s bespoke program allows you to carpet the seats and line the floor in leather, if you so choose. Chuck out the back seats for a humidor? Done. This is all ordering off the menu; if it’s physically possible, RR’s engineers will have a go at it.

All part of the experience, but so too is the beacon of affluence this thing projects. The roads here are cluttered with Range Rover Sports and AMG-badged Mercs and Porsche SUVs and M-sport BMWs and the Roller just crushes their showy, desperate, over-chromed avarice beneath its wheels as Gatsby’s creamy yellow Ghost did Myrtle Wilson.

Or so it would seem to me, as I glide along in the sunshine, radiating positively Trumpian levels of smug self-satisfaction. And then – you can’t make this stuff up – someone drives past going the other way in a Ferrari Enzo. Well, that puts rather a damper on the evening.

Time for Cinderella’s carriage to turn back into a pumpkin – time for me to return to the comfortable middle-class lifestyle my parents worked their asses off to get: a lifestyle my daughter’s children might not be able to enjoy no matter how bright they are, nor how hard they work. This Roller is a chariot for the glittering Eloi, and if we’re not exactly Morlocks yet, that does seem to be the way things are going. Even the once enthusiastic Chinese are saying things along the lines of, “only a dragon can breed another dragon; the children of rats are fated to scrabble in the darkness.”

I head back to return the keys via the looping asphalt of Stanley Park. The traffic is nonexistent, and I am entirely ensconced in the throne room of my own mind when I turn a corner and come across a young family waiting at a crosswalk.

I shift my right foot off the accelerator and gently depress the brake, causing the Royce to roll to a halt soundlessly, graciously. A magnanimous tilt of the head and intentions are made clear – the saucer-eyed child grips his mother’s hand tightly and the father half-raises a hand in salute as the family crosses the road.

There, beneath susurrating trees that send leafy shadows dancing across the Spirit of Ecstasy, safe in the green heart of our city of glass, we smile and smile and smile and smile – I in my borrowed ermine robes, they in their mass-produced best.

And, at the very same time, thousands of miles away, the thump of industrial looms sends sand scurrying from a fresh crack in the foundation of a Bangladeshi garment factory; gas-flares flicker weakly in the poisonous miasma of a Nigerian swamp; a blind, mindless grey dragon receives the wrong instructions and pivots on kevlar wings to vomit fire and death into an Afghani wedding – the brief, bright, burning flash of Hellfire rockets turning love and hope and joy and life into heaps of drifting ash.

This is a fine automobile. A lovely bright bauble built to amuse the super-wealthy and then be discarded once it is no longer a status symbol. It’s a chariot for the people who would be our kings.

Well, I’m a peasant. And I didn’t vote for them.

Rolls-Royce provided the vehicle tested, insurance and fuel.

If you have a half million dollars in your pocket, you can be the opening bidder on a lot of 550 classic cars located at a family owned towing and storage lot in Apache Junction, AZ and listed for sale on Ebay right now. According to the ad, the business has been in operation since the 1960s and the lot is filled with cars from the 1940s through the 1980s, approximately 97% of which are complete with motors, transmissions and body parts. You can even negotiate to leave the cars where they are – that way your wife will never know…

“YOUR CAR!!!! I LOVE YOUR CAR!!!!” She was a Slavic-faced woman in her mid-twenties, not bad for New York and positively model-grade by Midwestern standards, and she was literally hopping up and down on the streetcorner.

“It’s not a car,” I said, wedged into the Morgan’s extremely tight drivers’ compartment, feeling self-conscious in a half-face helmet that I wasn’t strictly sure was necessary or even required by law. “It’s a trike.”

“I WANT A RIDE!” she yelled. A crowd was starting to gather. The stoplight seemed to be taking an unusually long time to change.

“There isn’t room.” Wedged next to me, the Morgan’s owner, professional bon vivant and recreational speeder Alex Roy, was making a “no room” motion with his hands in her direction as he explained the situation.

“Oh,” I smirked, “I think there’s room.” But then the green light flashed and with an incongruous but very forceful Harley-blat we departed the intersection, leaving Miss Hopping Estonia 2007 in our blue-smoking wake.

Most modern gearheads know who Alex Roy is; he’s even managed to get on the Letterman show in order to brag about making it across the country in thirty-one hours and change in one of his “POLIZEI” BMW M5s. Like fellow journalist and daredevil Matt Farah, Mr. Roy is notorious for all sorts of high-dollar hijinks in various Bullruns, Gumballs, and other velvet-rope driving events. Also like Matt Farah, the real-life Alex Roy is a thoughtful intellectual with a genuine, childlike passion for cars. It’s hard not to like them both once you have any in-person exposure to them.

A few years ago, I had a couple of caustic words for the bald-by-choice Roy. In response, he sent me a copy of his book and invited me to stop by his place in New York to discuss it. I arrived ready for a good solid scrap but ended up laughing all evening at Alex’s ability to turn a phrase in the service of a story. At the heart of it, he’s one of “us”. He’s a car guy through and through. Whatever my opinion of the Gumball Rally might be, (hint: it rhymes with chucks rocks) my opinion of Alex Roy is high.

When he offered me an opportunity to spin his Morgan Trike around Lower Manhattan in the dead of night, therefore, I accepted before he could finish the sentence. I arrived at his Greenwich Village loft last Tuesday evening and found Alex screening films with his cross-country co-driver, the impeccably handsome David Maher. With Mr. Maher’s departure to do whatever millionaire playboys do in New York, Alex and I headed to the parking garage beneath his building. The trike was parked on a very steep blind exit, so my first task was to fire it up and drive away without rolling backwards and hitting my own rental car.

I hadn’t been exactly sure what to expect when I squeezed myself into the leather-lined open cockpit, but the reality of operating the 3 Wheeler is very pleasant. Three pedals, no hand clutch or anything deliberately odd like that. It starts up like a car, although there’s a master switch to flip on before hitting the starter button. My size 10.5D New Balance 993s fit the pedalbox with no difficulty, although there’s no dead pedal to speak of. This would not be a great vehicle in which to cross the country, even if one suspected it could be done in thirty-one hours. Which it could not, for reasons I’ll discuss shortly. Although final drive is by means of an unconventional and fairly delicate toothed belt, I had no trouble balancing it on the clutch and then rolling it up and out of the garage.

The last trike I drove was the the rather imperfect CanAm Spyder, which was basically a snowmobile with wheels. This, on the other hand, feels like a somewhat attenuated version of a Caterham Seven. Control efforts are very low, from the wrist-action shifter to the quick-to-engage brakes. I found it easy to place my left palm flat on the ground without altering my seating position. I don’t recommend doing this on the move, even for a moment, even just to see if you can do it. The Morgan offers a doorhandle’s-eye view of New York City traffic.

The power from the S&S-built Harley twin is more than adequate, even short-shifting to save the already-battered drive belt. It’s possible to dive for gaps between taxis, but this is no Crown Victoria and it has to be understood that in any metal-mashing encounter with anything more substantial than a Vespa the Morgan will likely come off the loser. Best to use the power to get out of trouble, rather than into it.

With 1,996 miles of hard downtown use showing on the odometer at the start of our journey, Mr. Roy’s trike has already suffered a variety of mechanical issues including the departure of both exhaust hangers, a failure of the accelerator pedal bushing, and a gradual collapse of the headlight brackets. After a few minutes in Chelsea it’s easy to see why. You, the urban Morgan driver, must continually steer between manhole covers and potholes. Striking any of them will result in a crash and rattle from the front kingpins violent enough to reposition one’s spectacles. Thankfully, the front end steers with perfect clarity and precision. It’s the back wheel that causes a spot of difficulty, really. At fifty miles per hour, any sudden manhole-cover-avoidance maneuver results in a rather startling oscillation from the rear wheel as it meanders up and down the road crown looking for a place to settle. I can easily imagine it breaking free entirely under less than considerable provocation. The way it interacts with the various steel plates and whatnot making up a large part of city streets has to be experienced to be understood but if you’ve driven an old motorcycle in New York and you’ve felt a narrow bike tire scoot on steel sideways you’ll have an idea.

The Morgan is far from autobahn-ready, and Roy describes the few racetrack laps he’s taken in it as “slower than the safety car,” but in this downtown environment it’s absolutely perfect. Not because it’s safe, spacious, easy to see, or terribly competent to drive, but because it pulls female attention like Mark Purefoy’s bathing scene in the second season of HBO’s Rome. At every one of Manhattan’s crowded crosswalks, the trike creates an absolutely hilarious phenomenon that goes something like this: children stare open-mouthed, men pretend to ignore it, and women of all types start twitching from the knees up. I experienced this phenomenon when I used to drive a Seven clone around central Ohio, but let’s face it: Columbus is a hick town and every time somebody in the city buys a Mustang GT the local paper runs a front page story entitled NEW SPORTING VELOCIPEDE PURCHASED FROM LOCAL PURVEYOR OF NON-TRACTOR MOTORIZED VEHICLES.

New York, on the other hand, is the capital of the world and the women here have seen it all. I’ve personally observed an F430 snarl its way down 7th Avenue without anybody looking in its direction whatsoever. And when the ladies of the city do deign to notice your Reventon or what have you, it’s usually with some comment regarding lack of endowment. The common-and-garden-variety 911 Turbo S is more of a hindrance to getting your groove on the Village than a BUSH/CHENEY FARM AND RANCH TEAM T-shirt would be.

Not so the Morgan. After a solid twenty minutes of seeing beautiful women run into the street for a mere chance to more closely examine the vehicle and its pilots, I asked Alex if this was par for the course. “Oh, yes,” he laughed, “I can get in trouble with this thing if I drive it around. Better to stay at home.” At perhaps sixty grand all in — the price of a Boxster 2.7 PDK with vinyl seatbacks, 13″ steel wheels, and a molded-plastic blank plate labeled “POVERTY” where the radio’s supposed to be — the Trike is an absurd value, assuming you have no concerns about the future of your marriage or the present state of your prostate gland.

Before I knew it, we’d arrived at Roy’s chosen restaurant, where we just parked the thing out front as if it were legal or advisable to do so. While I dined on some top-notch roasted chicken and chucked back the Ketel One, he laughingly observed women climbing into the Morgan for photographs again and again. “I don’t mind,” he allowed, “as long as they aren’t hurting anything.” When we walked out, a young couple was attempting to photograph themselves in front of the Morgan.

“I’m the owner,” I announced, and simply put my arm around the lady’s waist, dragging her away. “Take a picture,” I commanded, which the boyfriend dutifully did. Then, amazingly enough, he turned to Alex to ask him about the car. “Perhaps you’d like to take a spin with me,” I whispered in my impromptu companion’s ear. She nodded eagerly; it didn’t appear that she spoke English. I caught Roy’s eye; he was clearly prepared to wingman for me. This was a man who had bluffed his way out of a hundred dicey situations. It occurred to me that the key to his rather impressive loft was probably also on the trike’s keychain. I could absolutely rely on Roy to keep this fellow occupied for hours while I alternately serenaded and violated his significant other. How could I not do it? In a moment, I attained what the Buddhists call satori. I understood why Fate had decreed that I would never be handsome, successful, or lucky: I’m simply not prepared to handle any of those things with grace. I released the lady’s waist with a final and thoroughly inappropriate caress and slumped back into the Morgan, helmet askew, prepared for the next destination.

Perhaps thirty people crowded around us as Alex hopped in and I selected first gear. I’ve seen other trikes decorated with the Flying Tigers gaping-maw graphic; I’d be tempted to select that for mine. It makes sense. In the city, the Morgan makes fighter pilots out of ordinary men and adventure out of a trip to dinner. It’s best left to people whose sense of self is just as larger than life. It was a relief to exchange it for my Caravan and once again become an observer of, rather than a participant in, the city’s nightlife. Still, I can’t say that I haven’t looked at the Morgan website since then. Celebrity’s a hell of a drug, isn’t it?

Henry Ford was no gifted artist, yet he made a car worthy of the common man.  William Durant didn’t especially like cars, but created a marketing and distribution empire that inspired us all.  And while Henrik Fisker’s car-centric life isn’t fully wikipedia’d, the first creation of the company that bears his name is an object of wonder and inspiration.  The Fisker Karma, like every concept from any auto show, is a dream car: flaws and compromises intact.

While I spilled the beans on the Karma’s Vellum, I never discussed the interior.  So let’s fix that.  The Karma’s guts are another exercise in concept car Shock and Awe.  While autojournos occasionally sit in million dollar concept cars, most folks do not.  Safe to say that if you, mere mortal, sit behind the tiller of a Fisker Karma, you’ve experienced the Concept Car in all its glory. Especially in the avant-garde EcoChic trim level, which is a good and bad thing.

Instead of mass-produced, the Karma goes cottage industry, Aston Martin Lagonda style. Plastic door panels at your knees?  Maybe, but they’re swathed in sheets of “EcoSuede”. Most touchpoints are wrapped in padded fabric reminiscent of Ricardo Tubbs’ designer threads.  And while there’s a touch of wood trim (eco-farmed from the bottom of a lake, no less), the obvious places for timber have iPhone worthy glass.  And brushed aluminum, including the electric door releases.  Aside from the EcoChic’s cornball leaf-etching in the glass, this tri-tone environment is an interior designer’s wet dream.

And the ICE in the center stack looks unfinished/overtly minimal like a proper concept car, but is intuitive and beautiful…once it finishes booting up. Even worse, the large Karma is shockingly small inside.  But since it isn’t thin and harsh like a (similarly exotic) Aston Martin Rapide, it’s more like the first time you sat in a bean bag chair. If you’re significantly wider than Justin Bieber, you might disagree. But less is still more.

Except when you get the Karma moving. That’s when 5300lbs of sedan feels just about right.  Aside from the frequent thuds and bumps from the 22” wheels, this is a proper luxury car with a ride that puts everyone else to shame using the Laws of Physics. You can’t hustle the Karma like a normal car, because this is a (compromised?) hybrid concept car come to life.

But the steering is remarkably lively, hybrid or otherwise. Handling is flat if you keep those steering inputs slow and stately.  Combined with the obligatory torque of an electric motor and the interior ambiance of a C4 Corvette (complete with ample view of that stunning hood), you’re piloting a proper space ship.

The driving experience of a monstrous hybrid sedan with a disturbingly low center of gravity is just as unique as the concept car styling. Touchy-feely thoughts aside, the performance numbers won’t impress: a garden variety 7-series will run circles around this monster. At least the GM Ecotec power generator is quiet and “sport” mode is entertaining…if not especially exciting.  I’d like to think the fuel economy is better than most luxury sedans, but that’s not the point.

The Karma is an experience. It’s immensely rewarding in every way. 

And Two and A Half Men product placement aside, this won’t be someone’s only vehicle.  At $116,000 for the top line EcoChic trim, it doesn’t take a White Whine fan to realize you’ll get more car for less money elsewhere. But can you put a price on owning a concept car? And drive it to work, enjoying every moment?

Bragging rights intact, every jerk off in a Benz, Panamera, Bentley, Phantom, etc. are cast off as “untouchable” when this bit of Hindu mysticism is in the joint. Inappropriate Caste System references FTW, son!

And while the current reality of the H-Town McMansion burning Karma adds irony to said Hindu concept, I did fall in love with this dream machine. And now I wonder if my tester was the responsible party…wait, could my personal/spiritual karma be responsible for the Karma’s McMansion maiming?

No matter: if the Pinto survived the explody-problem and thrived in a (somewhat) competitive market for years, why not cut Fisker a break?  Unless it burned down your crib, too. So let’s go back to the money, honey. Everyone’s all about Fisker’s long-term financial prospects: tragic, but a fair point.

My point? Screw it: the intended buyer has tons of disposable income and the Karma is a stunning piece of machinery. It, like true love, is filled with beauty, bliss and effortless good times. Also like true love, there’s sadness, tragedy, and nothing more than unfounded hope for a better future with the one you adore.  This is the passion of owning a sedan that will be the last vehicle mistaken for an appliance. A sedan amongst the most exotic vehicles, no less!

And with that, thank goodness for concept cars becoming a reality. Enjoy it while you can.

Rarely does it happen that I get so excited to get up on a Monday morning, especially after a late night on a Sunday. But it was different this Monday, I was driving all the way from Mumbai to Pune early morning to drive a taxi. Yes a taxi, but this is no normal taxi, you see. It’s the iconic cab, made by the London Taxi Company. Popularly called the black cab or the hackney carriage, the London Taxi is a rare sight in India, because there are just six of these in India. I drove a red one.

These London Taxis belong to the Panchshil Realty group, which runs a large number of premium hotels in Pune. Panchshil is one of the premier real estate developers in Pune. The company has developed some premium properties in Pune, including the Marriot, and a few office buildings for companies such as NVIDIA, Suzlon and Siemens. With such high-rolling clientele, it was imperative to have a vehicle which would be unlike any other on Pune roads. With Rollers and Bentleys in short supply, a fleet of London Taxis landed in Pune.

 A Brief History – The London Taxi is made especially for well, London. The vehicle has specifications and features which make it the best taxi for the streets of London, helping drivers maneuver with ease and ferry their passengers in utmost comfort. A taxi needs to be low on maintenance and easy to service, and that is where the London Taxi excels. The vehicle is built extremely well and requires very little maintenance.

In the 1950s, the Austin FX4 came with significant improvements over its predecessor, the, you guessed it, FX3. In 1984, London Taxi International was formed, it changed its name to the London Taxi Company in 2010. The FX4 was in service for 39 years, before it was pulled off the market in 1997 as it had aged. It was replaced by the TX1, a modern taxi, but it maintained the spirit of the London Taxi. It was in use for 5 years and was succeeded by the TXII in 2002. The major difference between the TX1 and TXII was the change of engine from Nissan to Ford.

In 2006, the TXII retired, an was replaced by the TX4. The TX4 is the latest model in the London Taxi line-up. The company has a joint venture with Geely (of Volvo fame) in China to manufacture the TX4, which started in 2008. This led to the London Taxi being manufactured entirely in China and being imported to the UK via SKD units. A passenger version of the TX4 is in the cards as well, it will be called the TXN.

I drove the latest true TX4  taxi model. The design is very retro and attracts enormous attention. The front headlights are rounded, giving the impression of old Bentleys. The side profile is quite bulbous. The rear is typical old British design. The vehicle runs on 175 width, 16-inch tyres and the alloys have 6-bolts on them, to prevent robbery I presume. The antenna is placed at the rear. The rear doors have a provision below them to house a wheel chair tray.

Step inside and you will notice the driver centric dashboard. The center console is positioned towards the driver and there are a ton of buttons on it. The buttons between the AC vents and the audio system are for the interior lights, headlights, hazard lights, fog lights and beam adjustment. Below the audio system are the AC controls and the intercom controls. The left side of the dashboard has the fuse box. The 3-spoke steering wheel houses the LTI name (London Taxi International), the instrument cluster is quite retro and features the tachometer, speedometer, fuel gauge, temperature meter, odometer and trip meter. The driver side door has controls for the door locking and unlocking and front door windows. There is a partition between the driver and the passenger compartment. There is no co-driver seat in the front, the space is meant to keep luggage, because the London Taxi has no usable boot, as they call the trunk where that taxi is in daily use. The left door has a rope, so that the driver can close the door without having to run around the vehicle. The boot stores the spare tire and the wheel chair tray.

I was surprised by the level of comfort and luxury in the rear. There is just one bench, which can accommodate two people in extreme comfort. The seats are placed on the last row and with no middle row, the leg room is extremely good and once can stretch their legs without thinking twice. The rear passengers have their own music system, AC vents, refrigerator, television, etc. There is ample space to keep stuff with lots of places to keep magazines, papers and the like. The Alpine speakers sound extremely good and most of the features here are options (such as the leather seats and the DVD system), which Panchshil opted for. The rear passengers also have their own set of controls for the power windows, door lock/unlock, lights and air-conditioner. There is an intercom connection too, so that the passengers and driver can talk to each other.

Switch on the London Taxi, and its 2.5-litre diesel engine comes to life without any noise whatsoever. The engine is developed by VM Motori and is a 4-cylinder, 16 valve, DOHC unit with a turbocharger, producing 100 BHP of peak power at 4000 RPM and 240 Nm of peak torque at 1800 RPM. The engine is mated to a 5-speed automatic gearbox and is Euro 5 compliant. The gearshift is smooth, but toggling the gear knob from Drive to Park or Reverse does require some effort. A petrol engine is also available with a manual gearbox, but that is only for outside the UK, mainly for China.

The engine has decent performance and never feels sluggish. Being a taxi, seldom does high end performance matter and if need be, the London Taxi has the goods to get you to the airport on time. The fuel efficiency is 12 km/l, which is quite good. An electric version is in the cards as well. The brakes are servo assisted with a split hydraulic system. There is electronically controlled ABS as well. Pedal feel is a little disappointing with very little play. One has to stand on the brakes with all force to stop quickly. The reason for the brakes performing so poorly can be attributed to the near two ton weight of the vehicle. The London Taxi uses double wishbone coil-springs with anti-roll bar suspension at the front and solid axle coil springs in the rear. Ride quality is good, but some bumps do filter into the cabin.

The best feature of the London Taxi is its 3.8-meter turning radius. One can simply take a U-turn on a two lane road, without having to reverse.

While driving the London Taxi, I was so amused by the turn radius, that I started to take so many U-turns that our support car was lagging far behind, reversing a couple of times to catch up with me.

This turn radius comes to you courtesy of the Savoy Hotel in London. The Savoy has a famously small roundabout at its entrance. This resulted in all London Taxis legally requiring a tiny little turn radius.

The TX4 is put together very well and requires very little maintenance. The panels are bolt-on making replacement extremely cheap. The body is made of hydroformed ladder frame with a separate body. There is a service center in Pune, which does service the TX4, so Panchshil does not have any problems with the upkeep of their London Taxi fleet.

The vehicle looks unique, retro and easily stands to grab attention like no other vehicle on the road. The rare sightings of this vehicle only means that on-goers gawk at you like you are in a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Hotels get around the sky-high Indian import duty through a special rule that gives preferred treatment to automobiles used in the tourist trade. The law says those low duty tourist cars must be white. Sure they do.

Whats Cool

• Street Presence
• Turning Radius
• Passenger Comfort
• Reliability

Whats UnCool

• Brakes

Faisal Ali Khan is the owner/operator of MotorBeam.com, a website covering the auto industry of India.

The MP4-12C has a wonderful backstory for those who love and admire the McLaren brand.  The McLaren F1’s instant Zeus-like status is a large part of the mystique, but not necessarily all of it.  That said, for everyone outside of this world (and price point) you are forgiven if you wouldn’t even consider this over the similarly priced Ferrari 458 Italia….as I probably fit into that category.

A large portion of what makes a super car (in the purest, Lamborghini Miura type of way) so amazing is the character in its sheet metal (or carbon fiber), and the imagery in those creases.  Symbolism is also important: Prancing Horses, Horny Bulls and even the stuff inside the Corvette’s crossed flags give someone a concept to latch on to, a reason to be proud of the huge capital expenditure they are about to swallow.  Too bad McLaren’s red wave emblem looks like something any junior graphic design student can make while picking his nose. But I digress…

I do quite like the lower valence: charcoal grilles that float in nothingness is a unique take on the supercar schnoz.  And while I think it’s a bit busy compared to the purposeful design of the original McLaren F1, at least it stands out in a crowd.

This is a good time to note how a proper Super Car has a nice amount of overhang.  I will take the leap of faith and assume the MP4-12C is designed to meet Europe’s pedestrian safety standards, and make a blanket statement: we need sleeker, more aerodynamic noses for everyone’s benefit.

The doors also do something pretty cool.  I wonder if their design is too complicated and fussy compared to the rest of the package. But if the F1 had it, the MP4-12C needs them.  Side note: the Gallardo needs a proper set of Lambo doors, too!

From the front three-quarters view, you can see how the bumper/grille design emulates the wispy side coves for engine cooling.  It’s pretty trick, even if I think black wheels detract from the package.  Considering the whole vehicle looks like it could be made by one of the many super car makers in this cottage industry, a set of wheels with the authority of the Lamborghini Countach’s “revolver chamber” design are needed.

Do you feel this car hails from the automaker that gave us the F1?  I’m not feelin’ it, son…especially since that greenhouse doesn’t hold three people with the driver in the center.  Tragic.

The integrated vents (that probably do something epic) most certainly look awesome.  I love seeing subtle, well-crafted details like this.

Speaking of details, thank goodness for Super Car hips and tumblehome!  Granted, we can never have this in an affordable vehicle, but work of the late Bill Mitchell was close enough.  Oh, to feel that good about Detroit Iron again!

While the speed bullets are a little fussy to me, these side view mirrors are quite appealing.  But considering the MP4-12C’s extensive use of Carbon Fiber in the McLaren tradition, maybe they are just fine, going with the carbon fiber mirror housing themselves.  I’d probably spend the extra coin to get McLaren’s matching carbon fiber arms…which I believe do exist, but cannot verify due to McLaren’s unbelievably slow and obtuse website.  Web 2.0 junkies do not approve.

The rear three-quarters perspective shows off the necessary “speed holes” you always see on Super Cars to make them fast and sexy. (Hat Tip to Homer Simpson for that wonderful phrase.) My problem here?  The speed holes aren’t as integrated (or painted body color) like many a Super Car before this one. From the materials, the shape of each hole, the cross section of each hole and the patches of flat black trim, this is a busy design. It’s begging for the integration seen on the quarter windows in the photo above.

Problem solved. The rear end is simply awesome from a dog’s eye view.  Which is what most people will see as this monster disappears into the sunset.  And while I could go on about the sleek integration of this design, I will say one thing instead: the high mount exhaust tips are very trick. They no longer exist by themselves, like a perfect couple that’s perfectly in love, the rear of the MP4-12C is a single entity.

Wait…one more thing: the integrated, smoked taillights in the rear louvers are so awesome that it needs to be a retrofit for Ferrari Testarossas around the world. It feels so good to see new lighting technology implemented without drawing attention to itself, until actually necessary. Death to Altezzas?

Yes, no doubt.  This car proves why oversized lighting pods are officially out of style. Death to Altezzas!

Even the rear marker/reflector lights mimic a character line in the MP4’s rump.  Somewhere, Mr. Walter Gropius is smiling from a sky high vantage point.

Oh yeah, the engine is quite pretty too, but that’s not really the point behind the Vellum Venom series.  Kids don’t normally sketch dashboards and engine covers in the margins of their school notebooks, they stick to the body.  And can you believe a phone took a picture this nice?

I didn’t drive the Bugatti Veyron, but here you are reading my review. So how exactly did an automotive journalist with zero manufacturer connections, and no income (at the time) aside from menial paychecks as a drum instructor get the nerve to write a Veyron review?

“SOLD…to the gentleman by the staircase!” bellowed the auctioneer, before everyone applauded the winner of the night’s ultimate charity prize: a trip to Bugatti central for a factory tour and a full day of seat time in the Veyron.  As I stood next my brother, who was still in shock from being that high bidder, I knew he’d once again give TTAC a taste of the high performance combined with the brilliantly decadent.  But, over a year later, the good Dr. Mehta is still busy beating cancer into remission.  And we’re running out of time before the Veyron slips into the history books.

Luckily, he was kind enough to being me along.

We embarked on the same Bugatti Experience as a potential customer: meals, drinks, snacks and facility tour complete with a PowerPoint presentation. The overview discussed the original Veyron design mule, pre-VW intervention.  Imagine the current Veyron except with flatter curves, a look more in tune with Bugattis of the past and less like a VW New Beetle on steroids.  Not that the Veyron is plump and derivative. But like a Rubenesque C5 Corvette, there are too many round elements fighting for your attention.

Whatever.  The interior doesn’t disappoint: suitably luxurious carpets, leather soft/aromatic enough for its price point and sheets of Alcantara giving the impression of sitting inside in a gigantic piece of tiramisu. The dashboard is a slice of heaven, framed by metal trim that doesn’t attract attention to itself, letting the center stack’s engine turned aluminum receive the praise it deserves. The air registers feel precise enough to come from a defense contractor’s machine shop.  The Burmester Audio system possesses the sound clarity, imaging quality and simplistic ergonomics of exquisite audio engineering: Herr Burmester even claims he was involved in the monocoque’s design from the early stages.

The Veyron’s other electronic distractions impress, mostly because of their limited real estate and flat learning curve. If a Rothko takes several minutes to make an indelible impression, the every interior subsystem in the Bugatti is crafted with the same thought.  But thoughts get rather simplistic when three large needles on the Veyron’s gauge cluster violently–yet effortlessly–swing to the right.  And this is where the good Dr. Mehta takes us home.

Sanjay writes:

The first time I buried the throttle after clipping the apex of a tight right hander leading to the back straight, as the quad snailed W16 howled and tried its best to fling me off into the horizon, reality started to sink in….life is pretty damn good.

After my tour of the Bugatti grounds, I met my French date: a solid black Veyron with a delicious caramel leather interior, showing 33,000 km on the clock. The staff informed me that this car had been driven, and driven hard.  But aside from a few rock chips and worn leather on the keyfob (that looked suspiciously like my last VW rental), this Veyron was virtually new.

Settling into the comfy, manually adjustable bucket, (custom sizes available, ‘natch) top-tier craftsmanship was evident everywhere. Retired F1 driver Pierre Henri Raphanel drove me off the Bugatti grounds to a twisty country road, while casually discussing the cars attributes. To illustrate, he came to a complete stop on a two-lane road with a gentle S bend about a hundred yards ahead. While continuing his speech, Pierre floored the throttle. The car lunged forward with the slightest wisp of wheelspin (times 4), hit second gear and negotiated the bend ahead with two fingers casually on the wheel at approximately 80 mph. The entire ordeal took less time and effort than it did for you to read this sentence.

My turn: with a fair bit of time in high powered machinery myself, the Veyron is most notable for its civility and near total lack of traction related issues. I tooled around small villages in the Alsace region, where people peered out of local wineries to get a glimpse of the black Bug at every turn. In this environment, the car felt much like any other stiffly sprung, ground clearance challenged exotic. Despite the 2+ tons of weight, the big Bug is more Lamborghini and less CL65 over city streets. Which is to say, it’s civilized enough, but the ride quality was no better than a magnetic ride equipped 3200 lb Vette.

Aiming at the autoroute, the car settles into a 200 km/h groove in 7th gear like a good German ‘bahn burner, with minimal wind noise or tramlining; however the presence of those huge wheels and Michelin PAX runflats, stiff bushings, and tight Eibachs prevents any AMG-ish pretense of true relaxed cruising. When holes opened up (or even when they didn’t), small throttle openings quickly lead to BIG speed even at low revs, thanks to 4 little lag-free turbos pushing 488 cubic inches. A 997 Turbo in high gear doesn’t stand a chance, but a stock (TVS blown) C6 ZR1 at 2000 rpm would probably have no trouble staying in the rearview mirror. Until the Veyron driver discovers sport mode, that is.

In sport mode, the tach (and adjacent Power Meter) stay resolutely towards the right, keeping the W16QT on full boil until you manually upshift. I easily saw 250+ km/h in between clumps of traffic with the same ease achieved in either my twin-turbo Ford GT or Gallardo…

…but this thing is bone stock. On pump gas. With a warranty to boot.

Oh, and it has another 150 km/h in reserve, you know, to dispatch said tuner cars if need be, though I didn’t have the heart to tell Pierre that the turbo Lambo (on race gas @25 psi of boost) would eat this thing alive in midrange acceleration. Not that it mattered anyway: piloting the Veyron is an experience.

We arrive at the track L’Anneau Du Rhin about 45 min after leaving the Molsheim factory. Pierre remains in the passenger seat, instructing me on a wet/dry slalom aimed at demonstrating the AWD and stability control systems. After a few laps, including standing starts and lane changes on wet pavement (with the stability turned off), it’s abundantly clear that the microprocessors can in fact keep all but the most hamfisted clods from getting into trouble.

The real fun began when Pierre coached me through 3 or 4 laps around the short course at progressively higher speeds, realizing I had some seat time on the track before. “Oui, you are good, I cannot earn my paycheck teaching you. Enjoy!” thereby giving me free reign to lap the track, though he reactivated the nannies. Frankly, that’s fine by me: I had no desire to test the limits of my insurance deductible, and the car has remarkably high yaw thresholds before intervening.

Yes, that means I throttle steered a freaking Veyron! It’s able to change direction like a modern era 300 lb NFL lineman, but its forte is still a straight line: even on the short straightaway, 200+ km/h is doable. Over and over, with the W16 sounding remarkably like a big block pushrod V8 from behind me. Unfortunately, a tight 1st gear right hander at the end of the straight eventually gets the best of even these 15.7″ ceramic discs, and the brake/tire over temp light momentarily forces a pit stop. 1001 hp and 4400+ lbs does not a good track car make.

During the pit stop, the low coolant light again rears its head, and our engineer reads the codes, quickly surmising a leak in the intercooler. He has the carbon fiber rear bodywork off in less than 10 minutes, topping off the intercooler tank with–what else–the same Evian we enjoyed in the pits.

Thirty minutes later, I’m back making hot laps. Now able to settle in a bit more, I notice the steering is extremely communicative, with virtually no discernible torque contamination. The dual clutch gearbox blips the bent sixteen seamlessly, though the gears are so closely spaced, the torque bandwidth so massive, that shifting is rarely necessary.

I remember thinking that I’ve been lapping this 7 figure car for an hour as hard as my C6 Z06, and the tire bill alone for this day was probably greater than what it cost me to put a cam, headers, and tune on my Z. One full set of rubber costs as much as the twin-turbo conversion on a Ford GT!

Finally a few laps with the F1 hot shoe behind the wheel on the long course at Du Rhin, and I am presented with a certificate in a matte aluminum frame commemorating this bucket list worthy experience. Did I mention life is good?

I still had another 45 min stint back to the factory, and I could feel the bond with this Veyron test mule beginning to grow. Momentarily stuck behind a French camion going under 120 km/h, I reflected on the morning’s presentation:

Over breakfast in the Bugatti library, the team gave an overview of the unlikely sequence of events leading to the production of the world’s most outrageous super car of the 21st century, it became clear how unlikely it was that the Veyron would truly see the light of day: over budget and not meeting its targeted performance parameters.  But CEO Ferdinand Piech’s baby somehow overcame all economic and engineering obstacles to become the highest performing production vehicle in existence.

His goal was clear: a formal statement of VW’s engineering prowess, able to blast through the atmosphere at 400 km/h and drive to the opera with equal aplomb.

I say Mission Accomplished. And I got to put 220 km on one of them.

But can any car, no matter how good, be worth one million dollars? Well, more like $1.5 million at current exchange rates. If I were a bajillionaire, there would be one of these parked next to “my” McLaren F1. For those of us with slightly shallower pockets, check out the high-end tuner cars with comparable or better power and similar AWD grip. The VAG themselves have a Lamborghini Aventador with 700 hp, pushrod actuated coilovers, and AWD for $400k.

Let’s be real though: in the Veyron’s league, price is irrelevant. There can only be one king, and I for one, bow before him. The Veyron, now officially out of production, cemented its place in history as the most fantastically capable road going conveyance ever built.

(The Mehtas offer their sincere thanks to John Hill of Bugatti North America, Mr. David Duthu and everyone at Houston’s Classy Chassis Concours d’ Elegance for making this happen.)

Not a fan of TTAC on Facebook?  For shame, because here are some answers to the questions YOU asked.

David B: if you park it at a “scratch and dent” store you got bigger problems than the paint job on your Veyron.  Mark Galutera: everyone knows it, so its pretty much like the Elvis or Michael Jackson of any motorway. Brendan M: buy the train to carry your Veyron to keep the miles down. Adam L: the new one for every day outside of Pebble Beach concourse de elegance. Eric R: no diapers needed. John T: Tough call, as Sajeev’s broke Caddy would turn just as many heads in less-privileged parts of Houston.

Keven F: aside from the keys and probably the headlight switch/signal stalk, I don’t remember much VAG family resemblance.  Shifter trim maybe, but much like the Ford GT, the badge engineering is good enough to keep you in rapture.  Craig G: Sorry, there’s no diesel or station wagon option, put away your checkbook.

While TTAC gets scorn for lofty criticisms of mainstream vehicles, should we demand perfection in a $405,000 (as-tested) vehicle? Because the Phantom is inches away from yesteryear’s glory: the highest regarded, finest engineered luxury vehicle before anyone cared about luxury vehicle upstarts like Mercedes-Benz or Lexus.

That’s not to say the Phantom isn’t drop dead gorgeous. The suicide doors are dumbfoundingly awesome. That Hooper Coachwork inspired design is impossible to miss: clock the long hood and short deck. And an elegant swageline, strong and stoic at the front, gently falling earthward before the taillights. Which are suitably small, drawing your eyes to the beauty of finished metal instead of the overwrought lighting details of lesser vehicles.

And if you don’t roll a MegaCab Ram truck, you’re in a lesser vehicle. The majority of its linebacker-sized frontal area contains that wonderful Roller grille, making the Phantom damn near impossible to fault from the front. But the “headlights that look like foglights” need the boot: a counterintuitive move that–like four spoke wheels–is an Industrial Design deadly sin. When nighttime bystanders look at your ride funny in the valet lot, something needs to be fixed.

Nitpicking no doubt, especially in “light” (sorry) of what’s inside. The dash is old-school charming, vents are made of an actual metal substance and the wood-encased analog clock rotates to show a sat-nav screen in a distinctly James Bond manner. The floor mats are made from absolutely randy-feeling wool, but the carpet could use a dose of Rogaine for a thicker pile. That rug looks fine in the exquisitely finished trunk: kudos to the leather trimmed boots around the dog leg hinges and a pull-down button graphic portraying an actual Rolls-Royce, not a generic silhouette.

While the latest BMW-sourced, leather wrapped, i-Drive wheel hides behind a wood door, it’s black plastic container is worthy of a Dodge Caliber. Dude, didn’t I pay enough for leather, suede, aluminum or plumbing fixture-grade brass at this touch point?

And yes, you’ll use that somewhat-easy i-Drive system far more often than a BMW, because this is such a relaxing vehicle.

Seating for five is comfortable, with excellent visibility up front and bespoke privacy from the massive C-pillar. That’s dandy, just avoid the action-packed, extra-plush rear quarters in a Maybach, LS460L or even the Hyundai Equus: replacing British Charm (terrible food) with a lap dance (and a free buffet) is most appealing at this Caligula-ish price point. No matter, the Lexicon audio is respectable up front, absolutely amazing in the rear. And the rear power suicide doors (with integral umbrellas) are much like the retractable lady statue on the hood: a thing of beauty.

But the seating inferiority complex continues, as air conditioned seats are a welcome addition to every luxury vehicle in the current millennia. Rolls’ engineers made the finest HVAC out there, but do us a solid and introduce cool air via that legendary tuck-and-roll upholstery, please. Or perhaps I shouldn’t be a broke-ass car scribe, getting someone else do my errands. In a different car.

So let’s drive this gorgeous beast. The direct-injected, BMW-sourced V12 is a smashing success: lifting the Phantom’s nose from a standstill, accelerating to 60mph in 5.7 seconds like a crescendo from a philharmonic orchestra. It’s no bi-turbo Benz at speed, punching the air with a coffin nose hood in a distinctly freight train-like manner. Steering feel is acceptable by Toyota Camry standards, delightfully accurate for livery drivers of the Panther persuasion.

Braking is outstanding, though the pitch, roll, massive understeer and tall seating position encourage sane levels of steering transitions. Which explains the reverse tachometer (Power Reserve meter) and bearing-infused Rolls-Royce hubcaps to a tee: show some respect, lest the owner knock you down to a mere hack, hooning a yellow cab.

Ride quality is this Roller’s raison d’etre, and it shant disappoint. Until it does. With hard walled, run-flat tires stretched to a rubber band sidewall on a 21-inch wheel, the Phantom cannot provide the ride expected from its NVH (noise, vibration, harshness) material packed body, near silent powertrain and pin drop quiet highway ride. Cross an enormous bump and the Phantom glides like a cloud, but hit a sharp pavement joint or frost heaves and the Phantom “thuds” more than a gymnasium floor during basketball season. The Phantom is dying for a traditional wheel/tire option, perhaps with thick whitewalls to compensate for the extra sidewall: because Rolls-Royces aren’t purchased for handling prowess and sporty rims.

So the Phantom is a somewhat-flawed vehicle, but is it best in class? Yes. Nobody comes even close to its appeal. Once Rolls-Royce sweats the little stuff present in cheaper, more advanced alternatives and refines every last detail, the Phantom will be God among men.

Readers who follow TTAC on Facebook had the opportunity to ask questions about the Phantom. If you would like to ask questions of reviews in progress, check out our Facebook page. Fans, here are your answers:

Paul S: sounds like Rolls’ styling isn’t for you, but the Phantom is brand management so honest it makes me cry. Rob F: like a fancy restaurant used to impress a first date, like comparing a Panther Chassis’ ride to a Toyota Avalon, the “sheer crapulence of it all” (as you so eloquently put it) is why this car rules. Richard L: Donuts woulda been scary, had I found a parking lot big enough to try. Antoine P: buy a Maybach, RENNTECH it and enjoy the best in turbocharged luxury hoonability. Jonathan H: it’s odd for a man to wear a miniskirt, but the paparazzi won’t see your junk if you soberly exit the Roller.

Ingvar H: the cheapest one on (wholesale) Manheim Auctions is 120 large, I doubt a running Phantom goes for less than six-figures. Jim J: people seeking less conspicuous consumption aren’t in this rarified air. Brian J: Rolls-Royce “Bespoke” program can add that stuff–for a price–except for maybe the air conditioned seats mentioned above. Ronald B: a fellow Roller on the highway waved at me all gentleman-like, but stereotypical Phantom owners exist: someone who was obviously high on something said I should be “blazin’ up in that b****.”

There’s a great playground in Berkeley, near the Rose Garden, that has a two-story tall twisted and banked concrete slide down the side of a hill, of the sort that cities would never build again in our modern liability-freaked danger-averse era. Blissfully unaware of this, the local kids use torn-up cardboard boxes to reduce their friction and go even faster. While I watched, one kid went sailing off the end, landing flat on his back. He stood up and did a high-five with one of his friends, grinning from ear to ear. “That was hella cool!”

What happens when that kid becomes a 38-year old tenured CS professor? He goes and test drives a Tesla Roadster Sport. We were on a family vacation to the San Francisco Bay Area, and I stopped by the Tesla mothership in Menlo Park, on a whim, to check out their gear in person. On the Friday I arrived, my friendly salesman, Ernie, evinced a pained look when I said that the Roadster wouldn’t really work for me but that I was quite interested in the Model S. Sorry, they didn’t even have the pretty mockup yet, but hopefully they would, some few months to come. I asked if I could test drive a Roadster, regardless. “You know it will handle differently from the Model S, right?” Indeed.

I made an appointment and came back on Sunday afternoon. Ernie photocopied my license and had me sign a one page waiver (notable element: I will not race the car) and then tossed me the keys and said to have it back in 30-45 minutes. No chaperone. (Cue music: Yello’s “Oh Yeah” from Ferris Buhler’s Day Off.)

Okay, what’s a Tesla like in the flesh? The hardest thing about a Tesla is getting in and out. I’m 5’10″, and with the seat all the way back, I only just fit. The seat adjustments and mirrors are all manual, but at least it has power windows. The cockpit is quite cramped, without much spare room for your legs next to the wide shelf of the car frame. I did my drive with the top off (again, a manual process that can only be done standing up). The massive B-pillars probably keep you quite safe in the event of a rollover, but they also create massive blind spots that force you to be extra super careful when you change lanes. Mustn’t hurt the precious.

As other reviewers have pointed out, there’s remarkably little drama in driving a Tesla. When you take your foot off the brake, you get a little bit of forward thrust, not unlike our boring rental Toyota Camry. However, when you’re cruising and you lift all the way off the gas, you get significant back-force from the power regeneration. In practice, in daily driving, you only need the brake for emergency maneuvers, and for holding the car at a red light. Even when driving down a steep hill, you don’t need the brake. I kept expecting it to lug the engine or otherwise misbehave, but there is no engine to lug, so it just slowed down gracefully. Very cool. (The brake lights come on automatically when you fully lift the throttle, as well they should.)

So how does it feel to drive a Tesla? Allow me digress to the first time I drove a Porsche 911 Turbo, the 993-variant, the last of the air-cooled classics without electronic nannies to keep you from killing yourself. I was merging onto a freeway and gave it what seemed like the right amount of gas to get up to speed and pull in. And it was exactly the right amount of gas, until the turbo finished spooling up and sent me blasting forward toward the unforgiving rear end of a semi. Brake!

In the Tesla, there’s zero lag. Not even the smallest bit. In a normal car, the only way you can get close to this experience is to have the engine already howling along high in its RPM power band right before you drop the hammer. With the Tesla, it’s always there, all the time. No drama, no engine growl. You see your opening. Stomp. Sqeeee! Lightspeed. (Yes, the sound is more akin to the capacitors in a big camera strobe charging up than any normal automotive sound. This is no bad thing.) And don’t forget that the Tesla had only one gear and that electric motors have essentially flat torque curves. That means you have the same staggering torque off the line as you have at 80mph. (I initially torque thought I’d write this torque review using the word “torque” about once every five words. Torque. Tesla’s got torque.)

I plotted a route on the freeway then up the 84 to Skyline Blvd. Traffic was generally too thick for me to be too much of a hoon, but there were moments, like when the slow Prius pulled over to let me pass. Stomp. Sqeeeee! Brake. Turn. Sqeeeee! Brake. Traffic. Grrr.

The ride was quiet and tight. The unpowered steering required some effort in the twisties, but was never objectionable. The suspension travel is very short, and small road bumps made the car thud loud enough that I wondered if I broke anything (I didn’t). This car works well on the nice smooth roads in and around my test drive (thank you, California tax payers!), but I imagine it would be far less fun with the potholes and poorly-maintained steets of Houston where I live. One of my coworkers drives an Exige, so at least it’s ostensibly possible. Hmm.

Geek factor: I attended a talk at Stanford in 2007 when the Tesla guys were going on, at length, about issues like environmental impact relative to different charging models (i.e., whether you’ve just gotten yourself a “longer tailpipe” or whether you’ve truly done something worthwhile for the environment). Through all of that, all I could think was “yeah, but what’s it like to drive?” Now I know: it’s hella cool.

The author is, indeed, a tenured faculty member at Rice University in Houston, Texas. Behold the power of academic freedom. Tesla furnished the Roadster Sport for the author’s test driving. The author does not currently own any Tesla stock and does not have any Tesla car on order. Yet.

Today’s tester is a Red Alfa Romeo. So I really shouldn’t be telling you how its name is derived from the cities of Milano and Torino. I shouldn’t be revealing that it’s based on the Fiat Punto and I really needn’t elaborate about its underhood gadgetry, because in days of yore, “Red” was all you needed to know about an Alfa Romeo. On the other hand, to paraphrase Dylan, things have changed.

Alfa Romeo exists in that rare pantheon of automotive names that inspire blind devotion from enthusiasts of the world, by virtue of decades building cars that appealed to the soul rather than the mind. But today, everyone wants aircon, power steering and enough safety aids to land on the moon. Everyone cares about the environment, platform sharing, polar bears and electronic driver aids. Perhaps even more importantly, no one wants any of the notorious breakdowns Alfas are renowned for. So we need to talk about the sensible stuff.

Enter the Alfa Romeo MiTo, which along with the Alfa 159 sedan is supposed to give the Germans a good run for their money, and is positioned directly against BMW’s Mini Cooper. Ah, but the Mini already competes with the Fiat 500, you say. But the 500 is a mini-car, significantly undercutting the Cooper in size and price. The MiTo is bigger than the Mini, but it still stickers under the matching Cooper all across Europe. Will it ever land in the US? Time will tell, as Alfa Romeo could return to North America in 2011… provided it survives its “strategic review.”

The MiTo – introduced in late 2008 – is filling a long-gone slot in the Italian company’s offerings: the supermini, also one of the most important car segments in Europe. A spiritual successor to the 70s’ Alfasud? Perhaps, but this Alfa has a lot more to do with Fiat than what you think. Not only does it share its underpinnings with the Punto supermini, but it also shares many of its components – such as engines and transmissions – with other Fiat models. Fortunately, the sporty bits – such as the suspension and brakes – are bespoke.

You certainly can’t call a badge-job judging from the exterior, which is – even by Alfa standards – gorgeous. The front borrows heavily from the Alfa 8C Competitzione – so heavily, in fact, that the result is a nose that’s a little busy for such a small car. Nevertheless, the car in general is simply a treat to the sense of sight with a sexy sloping roof and the world’s first tasteful automotive application of chrome, which surrounds the round LED lights. It really is a car you could park in the driveway and stare at for hours, admiring its sculpted alloys and even the brake calipers, carefully inscribed with ‘Alfa Romeo’ in a beautiful script. A run-of-the-mill Punto? Not so much.

Enter the cabin, and the design festival lingers on. Talk about oxymorons – there’s (optional) dark-red-soft-touch-faux-carbon which looks and feels great. The sculpted dash hides some good looking, orange-glowing dials, and Benzina is surely the sexiest title ever to grace a fuel gauge. Honestly. There’s pleasant attention to details here as well: the air vents are coated with a gentle chrome application, the tachometer displays turbo boost pressure (with no conceivable purpose or measuring units) and the windows are frameless.

On the quality front, not everything is perfect. The faux-aluminum trim on the center console doesn’t look that bad, but that changes once you touch it. Worryingly, when applying slight pressure, it also squeaks. There are some low-rent plastics hiding beneath eyesight, and every left turn something that appeared to be a screw on the run rolled somewhere in the rear of the glove compartment. Small niggles notwithstanding, the MiTo’s cockpit has an air of quality to it, if not as impressive as some of Fiat’s recent products.

In the name of style, of course, the MiTo has only two doors. While it’s roomy up front, the back seats offer little in the way of legroom, and thanks to that great looking roofline, taller individuals may find that their head strikes the ceiling more often than it is socially acceptable. It gets worse in the trunk, which offers a miserly 9-and-a-half cubic feet of displacement. Alfa’s supermini, then, is (thankfully) a win of form over function.

You can have the MiTo with a variety of Fiat Group’s ubiquitous 1.4 gas engines (or MultiJet diesels), starting with a basic 90 bhp unit, but our kitted-out Veloce tester has the top-spec turbocharged version with no less than 155 horses. This isn’t the first time this unit impressed me, and it gets even better in the Alfa, where it has a fantastic, throaty soundtrack that makes it feel considerably larger in displacement than it really is. Even on stops it produces a lofty burble – none of that turbo whistling either.

While turbo lag is barely noticeable, this is still an engine that lives in the mid-range. Sure, it revs happily to 6,500 rpm, but it’s much more at home living on main street, where it oozes with torque. Disappointingly for a supermini with such levels of power, the MiTo completes the sprint to 60 in 8 seconds, but makes up for the spec-sheet disappointment with excellent mid-range performance.

Lo and behold, ladies and gentlemen – this Alfa has a third pedal and a genuine stick between the front seats. Not a Selespeed sequential, semi-automatic devil, but a plain and simple 6 speed manual gearbox that really compliments the MiTo. Thanks to the never ending supply of torque, there’s not much rowing to be done. You can put it in third while in town and forget it. The box itself is a pleasure to use, but it could use a slightly shorter throw.

The thick-bellied steering wheel holds a special meaning for drivers. But I was afraid. Recent Fiat group products left driving experience way down on their wish list. Would the MiTo be a commercialized Alfa – one that’s meant to be a cash cow rather than provide true driving excitement?

It was a relief to find out that the Alfa Romeo MiTo is more than capable of holding itself through the bends. Yes, the steering is numb and lacks feedback, but at least it’s precise. Otherwise, it’s plain, good hearted fun – the MiTo resists understeer beautifully and progressively, so you get sufficient warning before getting into tire-squeal territory. That’s thanks, in part, to the Q2 electronic limited slip front differential. It will even throw its tail out should you ask it nicely. Brakes are good, body roll is well controlled and torque-steer is nowhere to be seen.

The MiTo has Fiat’s variable-assistance electro-hydraulic setup, and in town the steering is alarmingly light – you really could make a u-turn by coughing in its immediate surroundings. In higher speeds, the steering stiffens and becomes acceptably weighted, but still errs on the lighter side and isn’t nearly as communicative as you’d expect from an Alfa.

The MiTo also has one more electronic trick up its sleeve – the DNA system, which allows you to choose between three different modes: Dynamic, Normal and All-Weather. It won’t turn the little Alfa into a giant roaring lion within the flick of a button, but it makes all the right changes in the right places. In Dynamic mode, throttle response becomes sharper, the boost pressure climbs and the steering gets some more rubbery resistance (which contributes nothing to its feedback abilities). Traction control and stability systems are set loose – but unfortunately, although granting a fair degree of freedom, cannot be fully disengaged.

On the open road, the MiTo is a mixed bag. On one hand, the suspension manages to flatten smaller imperfections, but bumps and potholes will bring it out of its serenity. While wind noises are kept at bay, there is constant tire roar in the cabin. Fuel consumption was impressive, with the MiTo averaging 20 MPG [Ed: "enthusiast mileage," not indicative of normal-use mileage] on our vigorous test route.

The Alfa Romeo MiTo isn’t a glorified Punto. Far from it – it is a car in its own right, with a different feel, appeal and character. If you look at it as a transportation method, it’s a surprisingly thorough package – even its major flaws aren’t deal breakers, unless you want extraordinary practicality from your supermini. If you look at it as a car, it’s a quick and fun warm hatch with styling panache and plenty of character – though it’s still not a thoroughly serious driver’s car. And if you look at it as an Alfa, well, it’s red. And that’s all you really need to know.

Vehicle, insurance and one tank of fuel provided by Alfa Romeo.

This review made possible by www.icar.co.il

Retro cars sell on looks. Take the Chrysler PT Cruiser as an example – automotive perfection it wasn’t, and yet it sold like iPods on a Black Friday. Others, like the Mini Cooper, proved that retro cars can look like the past and drive like the present. But worth driving or not, almost every retro car introduced over the last few years has been a marketing sensation, bringing easy revenue and much-needed customers into an otherwise dull product line, and reviving deserted showrooms. No surprise, then, that upon reviewing the stellar sales of the Ford Mustang, Mini Cooper and the Volkswagen New Beetle, Fiat’s chiefs in Torino decided that it was time to launch a true Italian vendetta. It didn’t take long to find inspiration: the instant choice was the Fiat 500.

The Fiat 500 is to Italy what the iconic Beetle is to Germany. A small, bread-and-butter car that put a shiny new automobile in every driveway in a country plagued by post-war trauma. Introduced in 1957 and produced through 1975, nearly 3.9 million 500s were made over the years – and some 400,000 of them still travel on the roads of Europe today.

So, Fiat’s designers put their retro hats on, and in 2007, the new Fiat 500 – or cinquecento, as the Italians call it – was born. The new 500 is remarkably similar to its predecessor with a flowing and harmonic design which softly mutters – rather than screams – retro. In flowing Italian.

The end result of Fiat’s effort is a car that people smile at – on the streets, in parking lots and in traffic jams. Not many cars can be called ‘sweet’, but the Fiat 500 can definitely satisfy any automotive sweet tooth.

Unlike BMW with the MINI, Fiat has decided to indulge in some clever platform sharing. Underneath the shiny bodywork of the 500 lies a much less shiny car – the Fiat Panda, also the cheapest car the Italian company currently offers. And they have a very good reason for this, as the 500 significantly undercuts the Cooper in its pricing.

Does it show? In a word, yes. The interior continues the retro trend with shiny plastic that is color-coded with the exterior – it does look like an original effort, but a quick touch reveals the sound of hollow, low-grade plastic that’s not at all satisfying to touch. The interior is, however, well put together and otherwise very pleasant to look at, with nice touches and attention to detail – like the chrome surroundings around the buttons.

There are also some obligatory Italian-engineering quirks included with the 500. Take, for example, the seat reclining lever which is awkwardly hard to reach or the unnecessarily-complex gearlever on our automatic tester.

Space up front is not bad and the funky looking seats are good, but getting comfortable in the rear is a challenging experience. Although, surprisingly, rear legroom and space is ample, our tester’s rear seats were more of a bench, providing an awkward sitting position that inspired backaches after mere minutes of commuting. You do pay – handsomely – for this relative comfort, with the trunk measuring a miserly 185 liters (6.5 cubic feet), so don’t go planning any road trips.

Under the hood of our Euro-spec tester was a 1.2 four-banger unit putting out 70 horsepower. Combined with a curb weight of 1900 pounds, you may have already guessed this 500 won’t win any drag races, completing the sprint to 60 in just under 13 seconds. There is also a more powerful 1.4 unit with 100 horsepower, and of course – the Abarth with its 1.4 TurboJet engine pumping out 133 horeses (and a more impressive 7.9 second sprint to 60).

Our tester was also equipped with an optional Dualogic automatic transmission. This is no regular automatic though – it’s a single-clutched, manual based, computer controlled unit. Although it’s not a bad effort for this kind of a gearbox, after Volkswagen has shown us how to execute the semi-autobox it with its DSG dual clutch gearbox, it’s hard to go back. This transmission offers slightly jerky performance in heavy traffic and doesn’t shift as smoothly as a conventional automatic or VW’s said gearbox. There is a clever Hill Hold feature, which will hold the brake pedal for you for 3 seconds to prevent rolling down hills, but we’d rather pick the stick or a conventional automatic which may or may not be added for the American market.

But perhaps the most disappointing part about the 500 is its ride. In its seemingly natural habitat – urban areas – this Fiat provided a jerky and uncomfortable ride, crashing over bumps and minor road imperfections with what appears to be very short suspension travel. This condition improved when taken to the freeway, but we’d gladly trade some cruising comfort to spare our backs in town, not to mention that the 500 doesn’t feel very much at home cruising on the highway.

The upside to the harsh ride is the handling, which is good. It’s not as composed as say, well, the Mini Cooper, but the 500 is still a fun car in the corners, although we were limited in this judgment by the engine’s lack of grunt. The electrically assisted steering is a little too light and lacks a certain amount of feel, but all-in-all the result is fair enough. For tight parking spots and difficult urban maneuvers, Fiat has provided a magic button which makes the steering even lighter – frighteningly so.

So, what about the United States? Well, there are several question marks left, but the 500 is well on its way stateside as part of Fiat’s attempt to re-enter the American market after leaving with its tail between its legs back in the 80s. It will be produced in one of Chrysler’s North American factories, and the convertible version of the Italian mini car, called 500C, will also make it across the pond. There are also plans for a wagon-esque spinoff (read: Mini Cooper Clubman).

At least for the time being, however, Chrysler-Fiat have no intention of opening a separate Fiat dealer-network, so that the 500 will be sold in Chrysler showrooms, and well, we can see some problems with the idea, separate showroom floor notwithstanding.

But back to the car. The 500 proves that Fiat can do retro too. And although the obvious comparison to the Mini Cooper (fun fact: both cars were designed by the same man), the Fiat 500 is smaller and cheaper – and it doesn’t manage to hide it.

Financially, the 500 makes very little sense. It isn’t very comfortable, quality could use a brush up and it’s not the most rewarding car in the world to drive (the Abarth should fix that impression, though). Yes, it is cheaper than the Mini, but it’s by no means cheap. You could probably buy a modern, well-equipped sub-compact for the 500’s non-retro price, but that would be using common sense, and common sense just doesn’t apply here.

You see, the 500 has this sense of occasion to it. It’s a (relatively) cheap-and-(very) cheerful car, if you like – and it’s been a while since we could genuinely say this about any new car. It functions better as a fashion accessory than a practical solution, and if that’s your cup of tea, you might as well take a long sip. Did we mention that retro cars tend to sell on their looks?

This test drive made possible by iCar.co.il

I’m anything but a Trekkie, but a recent drive in the Tesla Roadster made me think of the Starship Enterprise. To be more precise, the Enterprise a second after warp speed has been deployed. Imagine for a moment that your brain is Captain Kirk and the “gas” pedal is Scotty. When Scotty receives the warp factor order and flips the fast switch, something very weird and very breathtaking happens. On the Starship, as in the Tesla.

Time and time again, when I’d mash the Tesla’s accelerator, I couldn’t help but curse. As in, “holy *&@!, this is incredible”. That is what happens when you have linear, quiet, shiftless acceleration from zero to sixty in yes, three point bloody nine seconds. Quicker than any Porsche, and as quick as anybody who has not driven a formula car recently can imagine. And with far less drama than I’ve ever experienced in a sports car. You want to go faster, and then, suddenly, you’re faster — faster than you probably wanted.

Doesn’t this kind of power corrupt? During a 20-minute drive through and around Frankfurt, it did, inasmuch as I couldn’t help dishing out gobs of pure speed whenever there was an opening in traffic. And watching motorcycles struggle to catch up was only half the fun. It feels almost unspeakably awesome to have almost unlimited acceleration at your disposal, especially when it’s in an unflashy, inconspicuous small car. A car of which a pedestrian at a traffic light once asked “is it just a quiet car, or is it what I think it is?” When you’re in a Tesla, nobody insinuates you’re a toff, or a wanker, or yuppie scum. You’re in a superfast sports car, and everything is just fine. Has there ever been anything like it?

Did I say sports car? Well… let’s discuss that. The layout is sportscarish, what with two tight-but-comfortable seats, Lotus-low entry and egress, and a cabon-fiber cladded trunk that may be large and wide enough for your golf kit but not much else. Continuing the case for the Tesla’s sportscar-dom by virtue of inconvenience is the top of the windshield’s habit of blocking your line of vision if you’re over six feet tall.

Fit and finish is old-school sports car too: the inside is simple and pretty, but by no means is this the interior of a 100k car. You’ll find no jewellish instruments and no foolish luxury condiments such as an air scarf. No toys, in other words, except the car itself.

A toy, exactly, but, again, is it a sports car? Well, first there’s the steering. What Tesla gives you is a very small, unassisted wheel that doesn’t agree with your arm muscles at low speeds and feels wooden at higher ones. Does Tesla have this feature to discourage hoonage? If so: guys, it works. Then, there is the heavy battery pack which, in contrast to some other EVs, is not flat beneath the floor, but behind you, at around the level of your shoulders. The sum effect is that the Tesla feels solid and substantial but not particularly maneuverable. I didn’t take it to the ‘ring, butI can assume from the way it feels that this Roadster would feel not at all at home there.

On the other hand, ride comfort is suprisingly good. Tramway track crossings are taken in stride and long undulations, of the kind that make many a car feel bouncy on the autobahn, didn’t bother me at all. (Wind noise is present all the time, though).

Does it matter that the Tesla is not as direct, as communicative, as quick handling a car as its Lotus donator is? I’d say, no. Because what you do with this car is point and squirt — albeit with a monster squirt gun.

In other words, you need to employ a totally different driving style than you would in Porsche, for instance. You step on it, reach warp speed, let the regenerative brakes do their thing and get down to a comfortable speed before entering a curve, and then take off again.

Are you catching my, well, drift? This is a modern-day muscle car. It follows a simple formula: put a super-powerful engine in a small package, and watch people pay a hefty premium.

OK — it’s unsophisticated, and if you ask the competitors in the electric vehicle field, the guys who are busy designing some miracle car for 2012, they’ll tell you the Tesla is impossible. Laptop batteries! A Lotus chassis they simply loaded to the brink with Lithium! But really: as much as some people care, plenty of people don’t. And come to think of it, neither do I when the drive is so good.

Also, many people probably care about how long the batteries will last; what happens to your faulty batteries if Tesla’s financing dies; whether these newfangled Lithium-Ion batteries are really safe; whether its range of 50-200 miles is acceptable. (I wouldn’t suffer from range anxiety for the simple reason that anybody with the money to buy one would in addition own another car for the occasional long-distance drive). These issues are in flux, and a matter of discussion to take place outside the context of a test drive. Another qualm might be the price, to which I say: it’s an early-adopter’s toy, for crying out loud — these things are always expensive.

But for me, the real significance of the Tesla is this. For the first time in decades, Americans are offering a car that by way of brute force, cheekiness, acute understanding of new technology, and clever access to financing, has turned into something desirable for people everywhere. America is no longer the laughing stock of the automotive world. Folks, you might not like the Tesla, you might think it’s some kind of Silicon Valley scam, but if it was made in my country, I’d be mighty proud.

There’s a big difference between myself and Lotus founder Colin Chapman. When I change a flat tire, I find that I have two lug nuts left over. Chapman could create fully functioning sports/racing cars out of the detritus found in the average kitchen junk drawer. One-handed. While sipping tea. The Lotus Seven—later Super 7—is perhaps the best-known and longest-lasting example of his Frankensteinian genius. Debuting in 1957 and running on to 1973 (when Caterham Cars grabbed the baton), the 7 has undergone decades of continuous development yet is essentially the same vehicle that Chapman created. And none the worse for it.

The Caterham 7 is no more styled than a shoe tree. The 7′s tubular space frame is barely spacious enough to affix a De Dion rear suspension with Watts linkage, cradle an engine of your choice, and hold a couple of legless stools upon which drivers are expected to sit. It’s wrapped tight with sheet aluminum and adorned with just enough fiberglass to drape the tires and radiator. A child’s first-grade crayon drawing is more likely to wind up at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The car’s real beauty: the non-inclusion of anything that could come between the driver and the road.

The modern Caterham 7 Classic possesses a healthy amount of Chapman’s most cherished auto-mechanical quality: less. Which, of course leads to lightness. At 525 kg (1157.42 lb.), the entry-level Caterham 7 Classic could be hung from a branch on a Christmas tree. Powered by a garden-variety 1.4-litre K-Series engine making all of 105 hp @ 6000 rpm, the most basic of 7s works the neck muscles and adrenal glands plenty. In this guise, we’re torquing 95 lb·ft of twist @ 5000 rpm; 200 bhp-per-tonne; and a zero to sixty sprint of 6.5 seconds.

On the subject of powertrains, there has never been a specific, standard engine for the car. The products of Dearborn have often been Caterham factory favorites, providing a nice squint-and-you-can-almost-see-it link back to Jim Clark’s Lotus/Ford Indy 500 winner. The top-of-the-range CSR200 sports a 200 hp 2.3-litre Cosworth Duratec that will propel the Caterham 7 from nought to sixty in 3.7 seconds.

Due to stern international emissions and safety regulations, the Seven retains its origins as a some-assembly-required box of bits. So it’s left up to the individual re-animator to decide how he or she wants to go about the business of providing propulsion. Caterham 7 spotters will tell you (and tell you and tell you) that it’s not uncommon to find Buick V-8s, Mazda rotaries, motorcycle lumps, or ATWF (anything that will fit) when peeking under the slatted engine lid. No doubt someone somewhere has given steam a go.

The 7′s existence proves that someone automotively-aware coined the term bucket list. For one thing, installing a round driver in the peg-shaped car requires maximum commitment; you can sit down any time you like but you can never leave. At least not easily. The process is and best managed without the “doors” and “roof” that the smirking lads at Caterham call weather “protection.” When in motion, the fabric serves about as much of a purpose as foil-wrapped Trojans, only without even the promise of protection.

Remarkably, approached on even terms, the Dartford dart is not entirely uncomfortable. Sticking with the sexual metaphor (so to speak), the cockpit will never inspire thoughts of paradise-by-the-dashboard-light heir creation. At 6′, 200 lb, and a size 10E foot, I fit just fine, chiropractically speaking.

Once on the move, two thoughts immediately occur: 1) in terms of dynamics, every other road car you’ve driven sucks, and 2) sucks is too delicate a word for the discrepancy between the 7 and non-7s. To state the bleeding obvious, the Seven is a track car first, a road car if you dare. Either way, the Caterham’s non-assisted steering and ventilated front discs (with four pot calipers) transmit every step of their mechanical operation, transforming its driver into a 7borg. The gearbox—here a Ford Sierra 5-speed with a lever no longer than your thumb—rewards with a pleasure that would cheer Lewis Black.

Wind turbulence, even at modest speed, brings to mind skydiving sideways. Communication, should a passenger be brave enough to accompany you, is best left for rest stops or emergency miming, even considering a relative physical proximity usually shared only by newlyweds.

Perhaps the great delight of the Seven is that it’s a rolling polygraph machine. It puts the lie to so much of conventional auto wisdom: a righteous ride requires big power, fat tires, and the latest electronic whiz-bangeroo. True, the Caterham offers variants stuffed with an assortment of wallet-lightening upgrades, add-ons, and gotta-haves. Hey, it’s a living. But just because a menu lists fifteen desserts doesn’t mean your meal should include them all.

No, the Caterham Seven, like its Lotus Seven forebear, is the distillation of what is only necessary for a drive. What it means to drive. That it somewhat resembles a coffin such as the one that currently holds the bones of a certain Mr. Chapman is just one of life’s lovely little ironies.

After a few seconds in the Mindset, I was thinking: Whoa, this thing is fast. And Goddamn, it feels good. And then I remembered a movie I hadn’t thought of in a decade, and it struck me: this doesn’t seem like 2009, this is more like Gattaca. You know: the sci-fi movie starring the Studebaker Avanti, Rover P6 and Citroën DS Décapotable—all running with electric motors. They are breathtakingly, inimitably beautiful cars. In the movie, they only make a whirring noise. It’s all very 2030, and, somehow, it works. Of course, if you had an electric droptop DS at your disposal, then why would you drive a Swiss-made, electric Mindset? But I’m getting ahead of myself. So, what is this car about?

It’s about Murat Günak, former head designer at Peugeot, Mercedes and VW, the man who styled the 206, the SLK and the Passat CC. It’s about Günak’s ennui with conventional cars and his desire to make something forward-looking. The result is a daringly sensible oddball. Of a oddly daring sensible car. Anyway, I liken it to the Citroën DS when introduced in 1955. Of course, conservative, quick-to-judge carmudgeons may call it ugly. I think it’s fantastic.

First of all, the wheels. Twenty-two inches with rather narrow tires. (They’re as wide as those on the original Golf GTI, but look narrow in proportion to the gigantic wheels). Narrow, says Günak, is neat: less rolling resistance, less wind resistance, less macho affectations, less prone to aquaplaning, lower unsprung weight. When the wheels are big enough, the contact patch is still large enough to ensure good deceleration.

Then, the body. The sheetmetal’s supposed to remind one of a 1930ish commuter boat. More to the point, it looks like a fuselage on wheels, sporting an entirely appropriate low wind resistance (with a drag coefficient under 0.25). Stephan Hartmann, Mindet’s Chief Engineer, told me the Mindset’s looks are also a product of his goal of a relatively high ground clearance, high seating position, yet low center of gravity. They’ve achieved the latter (at a height of around 70 cm) by positioning the car’s Li-Ion batteries centrally, below the cabin.

And now for the driving experience, or rather, the passenger experience. The Mindset’s a prototype; Hartmann drove during a recent demonstration through Zurich. Weighing-in at around 800kg, the aluminum-spaceframed electric car serves-up 220NM (1760 lbs/162 lb·ft) of torque. There’s addictive, neck-pulling, instantaneous and linear acceleration. AutoBild claim (in German natürlich) that the Mindset out-accelerates the 911 Turbo—for a few seconds anyway. The EV mule feels like a sorted, mass-produced car, with none of the creaks and groans you normally get in a prototype hard-cornering over bumpy urban roads.

The Mindset’s interior is roomy, at the same time iPodesque modern and bench-seated old-fashioned. It has a flat floor, great visibility and custom leather upholstery and luggage. Many people dislike it; the Mindset guys know that it (as does the whole car) polarizes. Apart from the glare-prone LCD instrument panel, I’m a fan.

Who would buy such a car? Mindset says they’re looking at the well-to-do person who finds conventional sports cars and luxury cars gauche, slightly embarrassing and old-fashioned; for whom the Tesla is just an expensive Lotus-with-batteries; and who want a more economical, everyday package. This target group sounds like me—and maybe fifty-seven other guys. If this company gets their financing together and proves me wrong, I’ll be glad.

My first car was a 1970s–era Opel Rekord. It was one of the most beautiful cars GM ever made. It was also roomy, reliable, as well as cheap to own and service. Those typical brand values made Opel a star player in Europe, and demoted Ford and many others to the status of also-rans. Later, Opel lost the reliability and beauty part of the plot. Is today’s Rekord, the Opel Insignia, good enough to lead an almost-dead company to the future?

The latest effort from GM-Euro sure looks good enough. The Insignia sports a spectacular design that gets almost everything right. From the side, it has that leaping-panther silhouette. From the front, you see a successful implementation of the puppy-resting-on-paws motif, combined with a dash of HR Giger’s evil alien in the grille. So it’s cute but aggressive. It looks like a contemporary version of the Xedos 6, which itself was an excellent interpretation of what a small Jaguar should look like.

The boldness goes on inside, where swoops and swathes and weird angles reign supreme. Some of it works well, such as the blade-like door handles. The interior treatment is certainly distinctive, without being over-the-top like the Euro-Civic’s is. But to my mind, the net effect is overwrought and over-buttoned. I prefer the Renault Laguna’s simple elegance, or the C-Class’s utilitarian look. Also, some of it just doesn’t work so well. From my POV, the thick steering-wheel rim obscured the temp and gas instruments, and the speedometer typography is unnecessarily small.

Which leads to a major point of complaint: the coupe-like Insignia seems designed in general more for looks than for functionality. Visibility is poor, what with small windows and thick beams. Space is at a premium: this is a 4+1 and not a proper five-seater, and it has insufficient headroom and foot room in the back. (The trunk, however, is big.) I understand the positioning logic: family space is what minivans are for, and sedans are nowadays tailored to professionals. But I don’t buy it. Why should I, when buying a new car, accept a downgrade? Do I look like a schmuck? Nobody makes me pay business for economy.

Most journalists have reported Audi-like interior quality, which sure indicates the value of providing prepared press vehicles. I can say that although the interior feels, smells and looks good, it ain’t no Audi: I heard a faint pip-scratch from the center console when driving over expander joints, and the gearshift surround is made of cheap and ugly plastichrome that crackles at a touch.

My tester had a fantastically tractable 160 HP oil burner coupled to a well-tuned 6-speed automatic. This Opel was quiet, fast (0-60 in under 9 sec), torquey (350 Nm (258 lb·ft)) and economical (providing 28 mpg despite often driven in town or around 120 mph). Once again, a good Diesel in combination with a modern auto is a near-dream team. (If it only had a chain cam . . . )

Handling is pretty fine: stable and secure at high speeds, composed and allowing high turning speeds on country roads. I seldom managed to make the ESP intervene, but when it did, it was discreet. The Insignia lacks the Mondeo’s magic however, with less precise steering and not quite as linear reactions near the limit. This is for a reason: the Opel’s development benchmark for handling was to achieve 80% of the Ford’s prowess. Also, in contrast to most other reviewers, I felt that the Insignia’s ride quality was definitely inferior to the Mondeo’s, with an autobahn experience that is closer to that of the bumpy 1-Series.

I could now stress how the Insignia has all kinds of standard gadgets such as an optical sign-recognition system that reminds you of speed limits, or a lane-departure warning. But I come from the school that says gadgets are only important if the basics are great, unless you belong to the Plymouth Horizon fan club.

I also come from the school that says having some strong merits don’t matter when they don’t fit the brand. Nobody needs a fuel-sipping Lamborghini. A successful Opel needs to be beautiful (check), affordable (Insignia prices are well below comparable Passats, so, OK), reliable (given recent Opel history, check), economical to own (maybe not, given the electronic gadgets), and family-friendly (no way!)

Up to a point, sexiness sells, and the Insignia has had a great sales start. But in time, Opel will have to answer the obvious question: why buy an Insignia from a zombie company, when you can get a (better) Mondeo from a viable one? For a GM car, this Opel is great. For a car that’s supposed to save a bankrupt company, it’s just not good enough.

Dante Giacosa’s original 500 was an industrial design master class for mobilising Italy’s poor after the war. Fiat’s nuova 500 springs from no such noble sentiment; it is meant to convince the focaccia-buying classes there is an alternative in the baby premium market to the ubiquitous neue Mini.

Fiat’s incessant marketing of the car has tried hard to convince us this is a modern design classic, and rendered in the metal it is desperately pretty. In that shade of red that only the Italians seem able to mix, it stands out. I have never driven a car that has drawn so many favourable comments from complete strangers—traffic lights and petrol stations have suddenly begun turning me into an impromptu spokesperson for the thing.

External beauty does not always translate to inner beauty. Entering the cabin, the first thing that strikes you is just how colourful it is—the main panel of the dashboard is matched to the exterior colour. In red, with the binnacle, climate controls, stereo and steering wheel all in contrasting ivory, it’s a joyful reminder of how easy it is to jazz up an interior with contrast and shade. Not all combinations will be as successful though, so spec wisely.

It’s only once your attention wanders from the neat concentric speedo and rev counter that you notice everything else below the belt line is unremitting cheap grey crackle finished plastic, and just how they managed to build this thing for the price. Moulded-in cup holders, non-separate speaker grills, the handbrake doesn’t even get a separate gaiter. Right next to the handbrake is another ghastly cheap grey lever, the height adjuster for the driver’s seat. I lost count of the number of times I got the two mixed up—not a mistake to make when you’re doing J turns on a council estate . . .

Despite it’s proletarian undercarriage—the 500 is a Panda in a party frock after all—this is a car that, in the best tradition of small Fiats, simply begs to be driven on its door chrome handles. The 1.3 mulitjet diesel engine, despite its diminutive capacity and modest outputs (75bhp and 105 lb·ft respectively), is eager and responsive right the way up to its 4500rpm redline. With only 960 kg to haul around, there’s a noticeable swell in power once the tiny turbo comes alive, and the unit is quiet unless you really grind the pedal to the carpet, when it emits a not unpleasant thrum.

What will really make you smile is the way the car never feels slow, even in fifth at motorway speeds; it never feels breathless and always feels like it has more to give. Longish ratios help, although first is probably a touch under geared for fast getaways from the lights, as you’re at the limiter seemingly before your hand has left the gear knob. The gearshift is finger light, and occasionally confused by a swift third to second downshift, but otherwise fine.

Oil burners often get a bad reputation for royally ruining a car’s handling. No such nose heaviness here—the steering is accurate and responsive, but not particularly bothered by anything approaching feel. Turn in to a corner and once you’ve got a bit of speed on, roll becomes pronounced, the top hat styling pushing the body over to quite a degree. Avoid bumps mid swerve; you’ll think the rear suspension has become unbolted such is the severity of the resulting tank slapper. The outside rear squirms quite noticeably under load—perhaps the rear end just needs a fortnight’s worth of organic farmers market produce in the boot to weigh it down. All this bob and weave in the bends doesn’t mean big car ride. You can feel each wheel plonking in and out of disturbed urban tarmac surfaces, on less wrinkled roads it never truly settles down. Road roar would on journeys numbering hundreds of miles, have you reaching for the pain killers thanks to a tire compound undoubtedly chosen for economy over grip or comfort.

Comfort in the back is of the front seats right against the rear seats variety, and you’ll have to spend time with the options list for such modern motoring essentials as air con, a split fold rear seat and alloy wheels. Don’t bother with the Blue and Me integrated Bluetooth and media player. The hands free works fine but everything else is a voice-activated disaster.

So what we don’t have is new small car stuffed with big car quality and equipment. What we do have is a brilliantly styled, sorted, fun to drive small car that pulls off perhaps the hardest trick of all, that of making you feel good every time you use it.

Why did Maybach put a speedometer in the rear of the cabin? The salesman’s line: “so you can tell the driver to slow down.” I don’t think so. Plutocrats don’t get to be plutocrats by ambling about, caring about the hired help’s driving record or hiring chauffeurs who can’t drive safely. [NB: Mohammed Al Fayed wasn't a plutocrat.] My explanation: velocity equals distance over time. Maybach figured its patrons would want to note their speed, check the flanking clock and calculate when they’d get to where they’re going. In other other words, Maybach owners would want to know when they’re going to leave their Maybach. The roof-mounted speedo embodies the luxury limo’s underlying philosophy. Maybach. The ideal conveyance for people who’d rather be somewhere else.

The Maybach 57S’s exterior does nothing to contradict this theory and much to confirm it. Think of it this way: If an upscale automaker wants to cater to super rich consumers who don’t like cars, or already own all the cars they like, there are only two ways to go. First, they can try to change the customer’s mind with seductive curves (e.g., Maserati Quattroporte) or unabashed excess (e.g., Rolls Royce Phanton).

Failing that, fuck it. Just build something. Make it vaguely brand-compliant and call it good. Although Porsche’s new Panamera is a timely example of The “Whatever” School of Car Design, the rapidly aging Maybach’s exterior is the gold standard to which lazy and/or deeply misguided luxury carmakers must eternally aspire.

That said, the Maybach 57S’s shortened wheelbase eliminates some of the 62′s bland, ungainly hideousness. Unfortunately, as there was so much bland, ungainly hideousness to start with, that’s not saying much. The 57S still looks like the genetically-challenged offspring of a three-way between a Kia Amanti, a 2003 E-Class and a contemporaneous S-Class. The Maybach 57S lacks überholprestige; it isn’t attractive enough to deliver deference, nor ugly enough to scare small children. It’s quietly absurd.

By its very existence, the Maybach 57S compounds this cognitive dissonance. A “sport” version of a three-ton limo? If nothing else, the concept implies that the Maybach 57S owner wants to drive his own car. Any such well-heeled wheelman will feel significantly shortchanged, in the Bernie Madoff sense of the word. Inlaid carbon fiber can’t disguise the fact that the 57S pilot’s ensconced in a cockpit that’s virtually identical to a Mercedes S-Class. The last generation S-Class. The Maybach 57S’s only “sense of occasion”: a button releases a dash panel which slides down to vomit forth a phone holder. Hey look! It’s 1997 calling!

OK, you can spend $9K and upgrade the 57S to full Bluetoothery. But when it comes to driver comfort and aesthetic appeal, the current generation Mercedes S-Class AMG has it all over the Maybach. As do a dozen cars stickering for $300K less—all of which are more attractive and prestigious (i.e. recognizable).

Yes, well, there is that. But if we set aside such prosaic concerns as badge snobbery and value-for-money, another question suggests itself: has Maybach succeeded in its questionable quest to transform Ginormica’s whip into the world’s most expensive sports sedan?

Maybach’s mechanics fit the 57 with a larger V12 (6.0-liter vs. 5.5-liter), increasing both horsepower and torque (603hp and 738 lb·ft vs. 543hp and 664 lb·ft). They also re-calibrated the 57′s air suspension, lowered the ride height by 0.6″, beefed-up the anti-roll bars and shod the beast with 20″ wheels. According to those in the business of selling it, the resulting 57S is ”surprisingly agile.” Yes and no. If you try and turn the 57S hard into a corner, you will certainly be surprised—by the enormous vehicle’s desire to pivot on its axis. It’s oversteer Jim, on a planetary scale.

The logical response: forget cornering per se and go for maximum glide. In this the 57S’s engine and gearbox are remarkably uncooperative. In sport mode, the 12′s power delivery is twitchy and harsh, like the nervous lump lingering in the SL65′s snout, with an equal paucity of gears to smooth out the transitions (five’s your lot). In normal mode, the Maybach 57S takes a good half second or so to “wake up.” But don’t worry, the tire thump generated by the massive meats will keep you from drifting off (so to speak).

The 57S has one party trick: straight line acceleration. The zero to sixty sprint takes five seconds. In-gear teleportation is equally impressive. Provided you slap the autobox upside the head by slamming the go-pedal to the carpet, the Maybach 57S will take you from any speed to 171 mph on a single seamless wave of thrust. And . . . that’s it. That’s all you get.

There’s only one place to be in a Maybach, any Maybach: in the back. Anyone who buys a 57S to drive it simply doesn’t understand their place in life. A shortcoming they share with the vehicle itself.

Per Wikipedia, the Marxist theory of False Consciousness claims, “material processes in capitalist society are misleading to the proletariat.” Trabants aside, it’s pretty clear that the founders of Communism would love today’s Smart ForTwo. It’s the one-dimensional vehicle that denies its occupants the luxury of time, space and value. But it’ll pop eyeballs like Gisele Bündchen in a Target. It didn’t hurt that my tester had the blessings of noted Mercedes tuner, Carlsson Autotechnik. Too bad it didn’t help.

Styling is one of the few (marketing) advantages of the Smart ForTwo, and your average pedestrian and shallow fashionista already know that. But I reckon most readers of this website cringe after spotting one. The Carlsson styling upgrades neutralize that stomach acid but still keep the general public’s interest. The muscled-up front fascia sports a lower valance, subtle fog lights and a mesh grille are a vast (OK tiny) improvement, while the rear’s wanna-be diffuser looks the part with a quad tipped exhaust. Win.

But the metal’s meaningless without the 25mm lowering springs and upgraded hoops; the standard 15-inch wheels make way for 16s in the front, 17s at the rear. Measuring an inch wider than stock and pushed to the fender’s edge, the Carlsson Smart ForTwo is a pissed-off tween: adorable, assertive, but more than a little awkward.

Since everything’s bigger in Texas, I was more than a little surprised at how well the Smart’s interior fared in a random test of excited bystanders. Classy polymers, fabulous fabrics and a panoramic roof offer more interior blingery than other “economy” cars. The Smart’s ergonomically advanced dashboard is a boon to cubby-seekers: the (normally wasted) space around the steering column makes a great home for your Blackberry, finger foods or spare change. While Carlsson’s aluminum pedals and embroidered floor mats look tuner car cool, they aren’t over the top enough to draw eyes away from the factory stuff: even the stock, leather wrapped, tiller feels even better than it looks.

Fire up the Smart’s three-banger motor and a robust one-liter of engine displacement bellows through Carlsson’s tuned muffler. Even with the hot-rod demeanor accentuated by the lively 10:1 compression ratio, there’s no escaping the Smart’s disappointment of owning one (or three) fewer cylinders than anything else at this price point. Put the tennis ball stitched gearshift in drive and the letdowns roll on like a government-funded bailout.

With an 1800 lb curb weight, the 75-ish horsepower (up from 71 hp stock), naturally aspirated Carlsson Smart ForTwo is somewhat lively on surface streets, especially between 20 and 40 mph in second gear. Leave that magical window of respectability and the five-speed manumatic’s absolutely horrendous gear changes crash the party. With the added exhaust rumble magnifying the loss of engine revs, the dramatic sighing-to-grunting action is “granny shifting” über alles. And it’s a shame the wheel-mounted paddles can’t change the Smart’s tune.

From the moment you fart [ED: dart?] out of a parking spot to a WOT run on an onramp, the Smart is a no fun zone. Freeway maneuvering is an exercise in calculated risks, since you are faster than nobody. Breaking free of the crowd risks exposure to stiff crosswinds that push the Smart around with the veracity of Nelson Muntz. If more people knew what it takes to keep a Smart ForTwo tracking straight in deteriorating weather, the roadside “haw-haws!” would be imminent.

Given the European tuner car quotient, perhaps the improved handling compensates. Like a stocker, the Carlsson Smart ForTwo pushes in corners, unable to defy its SUV-worthy center of gravity. The larger tires add an extra modicum of grip: a welcome margin of safety to ensure the Smart’s copious body roll becomes nothing more than a wake up call for wannabe hoons who missed the latest IIHS crash tests. Turn-in and steering feel is unbelievably dull for a rear engine vehicle: a not so subtle reminder that the Smart ForTwo is a commuter car with zero sporting intentions.

Which normally equates to a smooth ride. But if a stock Smart ForTwo can’t muster a reasonably isolated passenger compartment, the Carlsson tweaks don’t stand a chance. The ride is terrible, “thanks” to low profile tires, lowering springs and a miniscule footprint. Not to mention the noise: road growl is so prevalent that an impromptu phone call from Farago needed a follow up email to clarify our conversation. Or lack thereof.

The Carlsson-fettled Smart ForTwo fixes none of the platform’s inherent deficiencies. It’s still a deeply flawed fashion statement living in a hotly contested price point. Product features, safety and dreadful performance (on premium fuel) are only the beginning. But the Carlsson Smart ForTwo looks like it’s got a pair, which admittedly is half the battle. A better transmission is next on the wish list.

[Motorwerks of Houston provided the vehicle reviewed]

Walked into a HUMMER dealership lately? The poster child for everything wrong with the automotive industry went from a vibrant, stylish lounge for conspicuous consumption to a somber, museum-like tribute to modern architecture and failed business models. It’s a sad combination of soaring heights and eerie, uncomfortable silence. This also describes the HUMMER H3T Alpha to the proverbial T: the brand’s failed promises of functionality and fashion for a premium price culminate into the worst product rollout of the 2009 model year.

But wait a moment: can we still party like its 1999? The H3T’s rugged proportions, slender overhangs, unmolested lines and an unbelievably evocative front grille could’ve set the burgeoning SUV flame into a five alarm fire. It’s a brand honest effort in contrast to every other GM division that squanders, distorts or disregards their potential. The style is classically right, but socially wrong.

Which makes it right, in a historically perverse way. Driving the H3T down Houston’s boulevard of broken dreams feels like the (hopelessly optimistic) pink tailfins of a ’59 Caddy cruising Pennsylvania Avenue while a black armband protest against the Vietnam War looms in the background. Two generations, two schools of thought collide all over again: part of which is why the H3T is the coolest lifestyle-enhancing wannabe ever created. No matter what you think, there will never be a vehicle like this again.

And that’s gotta be worth something, since there’s not much worth cheering for inside. While HUMMER infused the Chevy Colorado’s interior with a great pair of contrast-piped leather seats and faux cowhide door inserts, the rest of the re-skin reeks of down market dour. Unyielding plastics are immensely stain proof, and the black chrome center stack absolutely begs for more reinforcements to justify the H3T’s lofty asking price. And from the mudslide of bass from the Monsoon Audio to the lack of a rear seat armrest, the baby HUMMER is lost in the dark ages of SUV interiors.

Note: if an H3 driver cuts you off in the shopping mall parking garage, don’t hate the player. Hate the game. The memorable styling of the HUMMER brand translates into side/rear visibility that makes a Chrysler 300 blush. The only lifeline to scratch free sheetmetal is a pair of gargantuan side view mirrors, creating a series of educated guesses as to where the 5-foot bed lies in relation to fixed objects. With these sightlines, the HUMMER lifestyle requires a damn good spotter for any serious four-wheelin’ event.

But things ease up back in the real world of the urban cowboy. The H3T is an easy rider, with basketball-height sidewalls and a softly sprung suspension. But the chassis has more flex than you’d expect in a modern pickup. No surprise there, the third-rate engineering of the Chevy Colorado shows up again. And this isn’t a hack job of the H3 SUV: the fully enclosed baby-HUMMER fares no better in back-to-back testing.

Which makes the off road ready H3T’s poor handling less of a surprise. The Alpha HUMMER still weighs in at a massive 5069lb, with more body roll, brake dive and understeer compared to the (relatively) refined movements of a full-size Chevy pickup. Maybe that’s fine—this brand makes no bones about it’s admirable off road manners coming straight from the factory.

Don’t like it? Don’t buy it. But that cocky attitude no longer works for the Big H.

So consider the H3T’s genuine truck bed with a handful of rails, tie downs and hidden storage tricks. Plus, being V8 motivated, this must be a manly man’s truck: the unique “Alpha” interior/exterior badging and brushed aluminum plaque bearing GM’s Performance Parts trademark (on the engine) mean something. Or not: the H3T Alpha has far more “area under the curve” over the standard offering’s five-pot mill, but the modest peak numbers and a quad-cog gearbox fail to motivate this leviathan in a fashion befitting Detroit’s other body-on-frame beasts.

So the H3T Alpha is the quasi-truck that prefers you not compare it to a real truck, much less the other poseurs at Chevrolet, Ford and Honda showrooms. That’s because the HUMMER’s payload capacity is almost 400lb less than the car-like Ridgeline, and tows about 1000lb less than the independently sprung Ford Sport Trac. The bed is an ergonomic triple threat: small, narrow and tall. Don’t even think about the folding mid-gate from the Chevy Avalanche as the H3T isn’t built on that GM platform. Oops.

If we still lived in the SUV’s heyday, the HUMMER H3T Alpha’s lack of substance wouldn’t mean squat. It’s got the right look, has a mean (sounding) engine and works like a somewhat incompetent pickup. But the market has changed, and even if HUMMER used their whole ass while creating the H3T Alpha they’d still screw the pooch. Hasta la vista, baby.

As the salesman retrieved the key for the demo GranTurismo, I approached the trunk of the sleek silver siren sitting on the showroom floor. Even though I was opening the Maserati’s boot rather than its bonnet, I felt like a pre-teen rifling through a copy a Playboy while the drug store owner helped Mrs. Myers with her prescription. The fact that the Maserati’s electric rear lid opened at all was heartening. And then I saw it: a blue box. Genuine Maserati parts. Fumble, fumble. Uh-oh. A trickle charger. A classy, digital battery booster, but a direct link to the most troublesome car I’d ever owned (a British two-seater named after a man called Trevor). It seems that Maserati’s latest product for the American market is still a bit . . . problematic. But not for the reasons you might think.

Those damn Italians. Why can’t the GranTurismo be a Porsche? Or a Caddy? Or a Lexus? Then I could just phone it in. Test drive? Do you test drive Adriana Lima? Don’t answer that. Let’s talk price. Actually, not yet. Lest we forget, the GranTurismo is a Maserati, a marque that fled the United States with its tailpipe dragging on the runway, showering onlookers with red hot sparks. In other words, certain precauzione must be taken. Buona fortuna. I’m supposed to be checking the GranTurismo’s door seals, peering down the side of the bodywork, eyeballing panel gaps, desperately seeking seams. But I can’t think. Hell, I can hardly breathe. OK, wait. I’m good.

The GranTurismo is a perfectly proportioned, exquisitely detailed piece of automotive artistry. Like most classic examples of sheet metal magic, the GranTurismo is slightly derivative; there’s more than a hint of Aston/Jaguar XK in the Maser’s shape and stance. While the GranTurismo is more Italian than the Bentley Continental GT is British, both cars seem curiously . . . international. Then again, who cares? The Maser’s voracious snout and crouching tiger hidden dragon rear haunches give it a bold, unique presence. In a world where a $130K BMW looks like a $30K entry-level sedan, the GranTurismo stands apart.

Inside, not so much. The GranTurismo’s cabin lacks the sense of occasion or (dare I say it) the delicacy of a hand-crafted Italian automobile. The HVAC controls are Delphinian, the ICE Blaupunktian. Everything works (which is, after all, the point), everything’s where it should be and the fit and finish are beyond reproach. But my Nikon D70 is more sensually satisfying. While I’ll gladly trade character for reliability in the Maser’s major control units (as Bosch is my witness), there’s no excuse for the GranTurismo’s non-supportive seats, nasty plastic steering wheel airbag cover and anodyne gauges. The similarly priced Quattroporte is a far more convivial place in which to cross continents.

The 5000lb GranTurismo sits on a slightly stretched Ferrari 612 platform, motivated by a detuned 4.2-liter Ferrari V8. Maserati’s Maranello mill develops 405 hp @ 7100 rpm and stumps up 339 lb·ft of torque @ 4750 rpm. Translation: the Maserati GranTurismo is not a relaxed, high speed cruiser. (For comparison sake, the Mercedes CL550 serves up 391 lb·ft of twist from 2800 to 4800 rpm.) To ensure class-compliant forward thrust, you have to slip the GranTurismo’s box into paddle or tiptronic mode and drop it like its hot. Nice work it you can get it, but it is work.

If you want a screaming Ferrari V8 at a bargain price, well, here it is. At the risk of sounding slightly crude, kick this bitch and she howls like you squeezed her nipples with an adjustable wrench. How great is that? However, Enzo’s famous comment “I sell them an engine and throw the car in for free” doesn’t really work anymore. Especially not in this application. For one thing, even on optional 20″ wheels, the GranTurismo’s handing is more about setting an appropriate course than adjusting it. For another, the seats. And then there are the brakes.

The Maserati GranTurismo’s stoppers lack initial feel. When they eventually figure out that you’re looking for retardation, they grab like a four-year-old coveting her sister’s Princess Barbie stickers. If a car’s only as good as its brakes, the GranTurismo is a swing and a miss. Equally annoying, the GranTurismo’s go and stop pedals are millimeters apart. Heel and toe my ass; the positioning forces a long distance driver to place their foot in a chiropractor-enriching position. Been there, F355′ed that; it can be enough to make you want out.

The irony here is delizioso. In a largely successful attempt to make a modern Maserati, Fiat has created an old school supercar: a drop-dead gorgeous, dynamically challenging automobile that’s an unbeatable experience on the right road in the right conditions. For any patron of the genre, the [now heavily discounted] Maserati GranTurismo is a fabulous bargain. Meanwhile, those who seek genuine driving pleasure from a Maserati are advised to step up to the GranTurismo S (review to follow). For the rest, next?

“Consultant” is the new way to say “unemployed.” But, from time to time, it can be quite lucrative to consult on various vague enterprises. Such was the case a few years ago when I found myself with the urge and the ability (temporary, alas) to add something truly outrageous to my personal Island of Misfit Cars. A racing buddy of mine mentioned to me that Spyker was bringing their “demo car” through Detroit. There might be a deal or two to be had. And that’s how I found myself opposite-locking a $296k car across two lanes of Troy, Michigan’s “Big Beaver Road” at the top of second gear, idly contemplating my personal liability in any potential collision while my corporate babysitter clawed feebly at his door like a kitten kneading its mother’s stomach.

A Spyker is like a really expensive, considerably faster Porsche Boxster. But that’s like Car and Driver’s characterization of the Rolls-Royce Silver Spur as “a really bad version of an Eighties Town Car.” The comparison fails to consider the fundamental reason people buy cars in this price range: boredom. A Spyker customer might be weighing the C8′s pros and cons against a motor yacht, a light aircraft, or a high-end tourbillon watch.

The C8 is an entertaining automobile, from its outrageously sexy polished-aluminum exterior detailing to the quilted-leather interior. The customization possibilities humble those of Porsche and Ferrari, exceeding the bourgeois predictability of color-matched seatbelts with such delicacies as “customer-spec widebodies,” riveted fenders, an “aerotail” meant to evoke the Le Mans prototypes of the Seventies, and a $36,500 Chronoswiss regulator watch engraved with the owner’s name and the C8′s serial number.

During a session with my Spyker representative, I settled on a “Double 12 Coupe” with a full glass roof, top-mounted air intake, riveted fenders, long tail, matching LV luggage and a stainless-steel Chronoswiss variant for a neat $377k. Sales tax up front would be $28k, with resulting sixty-month payments of $7,548.77. Yes, there are people who will sixty-month finance your Spyker, but make no mistake: most purchases are cash.

With the sales pitch and catalog perusal out of the way, it was time to drive the C8. Our tester had been driven by Carl Lewis in the “Bullrun.” It had 8,900 miles on the odometer. Despite the relatively high mileage and presumably abusive treatment, the Spyker was easily the tightest, most rattle-free droptop I’d driven, accepting the Detroit potholes with equanimity. “Of course, you will specify your own shock valving,” the Eurotrash-looking rep told me, clearly expecting that I would be impressed. Dude, come on. I specified the shock valving on my Plymouth Neon race car, but that doesn’t make it upscale.

The Spyker is light. Lighter than a Boxster, lighter than an S2000, lighter than a MINI Cooper Clubman. And it has power: 400+ hp from a tuned Audi V8. The resulting punch is outstanding, although not quite up to the level of a modern Viper SRT-10, and the combination of open top, aluminum flywheel, and the Audi mill’s natural desire to rev makes it feel faster than it really is.

There’s no hesitation to the power. Those of us who drive fast production cars on a regular basis have mentally “edited out” the brief pause that a Viper, Corvette, or Lamborghini imposes on you while the ECU figures out the emissions before the torque comes up to match the two-ton bulk of a modern supercar. The C8 has none of that. It feels like an American Iron race car. Press the throttle and move.

And Matt Farah was right, the shifter is “awesome,” as long as you’re willing to trade speed of engagement for aesthetic appeal. It has the weight, feel, coldness to touch, and solid “clunk” of a stainless-steel Colt Gold Cup. Unfortunately, the matching four-spoke aluminum wheel was missing, replaced by a DOT-approved leather model. For an appropriate sum, the original item will be supplied in a leather case for “off-road use”.

The steering has the darting, hypersensitive feel of a 911. The brakes require a firm shove to accomplish anything. At speed, the Spyker’s weight distribution shows in the initial lack of bite followed by a set-and-commit in the rear end. The controls are honest and predictable enough to permit a no-hands powerslide . . . although for the sake of our ride-along minder I didn’t do that twice.

All in all, I was charmed by the Dutch supercar. It’s small and light, which earn it bonus points in an era of two-ton Murcielagos. It looks like nothing else on the road, and it can be customized to a fare-thee-well. It wouldn’t challenge a well-driven 911GT3 on a road course, but to drive this car on a track misses the point. In a world of airbag-equipped Ferraris with five-mode stability control, the Spyker stands apart. For some, it’s enough.

Ettore made just two examples: one for his son and one for his daughter. Our car was his son’s and Lordy, what a lovely little machine.

As the legend goes, a drunken postman on a bicycle got onto the test track when Jean was testing a Gran Prix car.  Jean swerved to avoid him, hit a tree and was killed. This car went up on blocks at the works. We bought it, ex works, for $2250 in December of 1960, changed the spark plug wires and drove it… or my father and brother did. I was 13 and had to wait 3 years. Thirty years of storage and it just worked. It had no vices. It always started, was completely predictable and would do the most delightful slalom drifting turns with opposite lock steering. Pur sang. Pureblood. Most people don’t understand that machines can have breeding, style and guts.

It had suicide doors, grey paint, red leather, red painted 19″ wire wheels, with real knock-off hubs and a spare tire sunk flush into the sloping back deck. Oh, and the license plate: plexiglas letters on a black field with the light bulb behind them (a lovely touch). The engine is a straight SOHC four with a single side-draft Solex carb and has the rare pur sang scraped finish that usually only went on the works GP machines.

As with all Bugattis, the generator was direct drive and bolted onto the front of the engine drive shaft. Notice that, with the hood up, you could get between the firewall and the dashboard; real easy to work on. Finally, Bugatti came from a family of artists, sculptors and artisans, and his machinery is just flat beautiful. If you ever get a chance, take a look at a Bugatti front axle: it is a piece of art.

As with real Gran Prix machines , the tach had pride of place in front of the driver; the speedo is over in front of the passenger. Choke and spark and the Italian-style floor pedals. The classic Bugatti crashbox: no synchromesh, no helical gears. You. Could. Not. Downshift. If you didn’t know how to double-clutch. Performing a rare, perfect down-rev match and a silent, crash-free shift brought a smile to your face. It was like hitting a home run.

Every gear but fourth howled loudly in its own rising key: you didn’t need no effin’ tach, your ears told you what the revs were.  But Bugattis were never the brutes like the Bentleys, Fiats, Benzs; they took a light hand and skill. They were rapiers. Driving them well was a “right stuff” experience. And in the late ’50′s and early ’60′s that could be had for a little less than the price of a new Chevy. If you knew. My father did.

The Panda looks like no other small car, because it aims to resemble a microscopic SUV (from the time when SUVs were something to emulate). It sure isn’t beautiful, but can it be called ugly? When functional things are what they pretend to be, I’d say ugly is only when the proportions are wrong, the materials are crassly cheap, or when embellishments are grotesque. So, ugly it’s not.

The 4×4 Panda has added ground clearance totaling about 11 inches; you sit high (in my case, eyes at 4ft4“). The dashboard has a pleasant, non-generic shape, the stick shift is located conveniently high, and everything looks well-made. Plastics are almost all hard, as they should be in an off-road vehicle. Headroom is gigantic; the front is a snug but airy place. Legroom in the back is OK for two slim adults, considering that this a tiny (140 inch) car.

My tester was equipped with a modern 70 hp 1.3L 16v  diesel. Normally I don’t think diesels belong in a small car. Oil burners are too heavy, too loud and not really economical. But for terrain use, torque trumps all. So I was willing to reconsider. And it’s not bad. Clattery from a cold start but unloud later. The common-rail Multijet provides linear acceleration from 1,000 to 4,700 RPM and strong thrust for the all-important 45-70 mph highway spurt. Don’t ask about 0-60 please. Just trust me: you seldom feel underpowered when 70 diesel horses have only 1060KGs (1.2 US tons) to schlep. My average of 39 mpg is nothing to throw your shoes at, either.

Any vehicle that kicks me in the butt is not going to be my friend (I want a mule, not a goat!). Happily, the Panda’s ride is on the OK side of OK. It feels notchy from standstill, but, generally, the Panda is a surprisingly refined, reassuring package. Let me ask you this: what do you feel when you take a car on a spirited blast over cobblestone roads and through rocky potholes?

Does your vehicle feel fragile and uneasy or does it just shrug it off? Offroad, the Panda  competes with the Range Rover. Onroad, it sports a fun and reassuring ability to take speed humps and lousy roads unperturbed. Torque steer is a non-factor, steering is lightweight and precise, and visibility is outstanding. Presto: the (for me) ideal urban car is a micro-SUV.

So there we are. The Fiat Panda 4×4 is great in the country and it’s better in town. It’s no good for high-speed, long-distance driving (too slow, too bouncy), so it’s not for me. But if I lived in one of my favorite places -– say, Zurich or Nice, or another beautiful city near the mountains – this could be one of my favorite cars.