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.

As we walk through the dealership, the Miles ZX40S instantly stands out from its competitors thanks to the fact that it actually looks like a car. This is no coincidence. While the Zap Xebras that crowd the lot are little more than tarted-up scooters -a fact readily admitted to by the surprisingly forthright sales manager- the Miles is based on a Chinese license-built Daihatsu Move. This means four wheels, four doors, trunk space and “real” suspension- features which make this model so popular among EV early-adaptors.

In fact, the Miles ZX40S is so popular that I was only able to test drive the outgoing model. Its DC motor offers less hill-climbing ability and lacks the regenerative braking that makes its AC-powered replacement model fly off the lots. But a brand-new ZX40S is listed at $20k (if you can find one before it sells), while this outgoing model is on “internet special” for $14,999. For that money you get such “real car” amenities as a CD player and foglamps.

But it doesn’t take long to realize that as “real cars” go, Chinese-built Daihatsu Moves barely pass muster. The body is remarkably like a smaller (yep!) Mk1 Scion xB, with room for four adults and a surprising sense of spaciousness. Inside though, “cheap-and-cheerful” doesn’t begin to describe the Wal-Mart-grade upholstery and interior materials.

The “straight out of Tianjin” impressions continue as you struggle to make your seatbelt work and jiggle the ignition switch endlessly. The surprisingly unembarrassed sales manager had just concluded that she had grabbed the wrong key when the toylike LCD display finally lit up.

Any of the ZX40S’s similarities to a “real car” are quickly proven coincidental by its performance. Though its internals can haul it to 45 mph, federal legislation electronically limits the Miles to a sedate 25 mph. Flip the dash-mounted toggle switch transmission to its single “forward” gear and mash the throttle, and the ZX40S pulls away from the dealership with the urgency of a well-laden golf cart.

On quiet residential roads, the ZX40S is in its element. Roll down the window, crank up whale songs on your CD player and you could cruise for hours (well, 50 miles if you’re lucky), blanketing the neighborhood with zero-emission smug. There’s plenty of throttle travel to ease comfortably into the 17.6 peak kilowatts, and additional passengers eliminate any chance of a snappy power response.

When egged on by the sales manager to “open ‘er up” on Portland’s Sandy Boulevard, the I got the ZX40S to hit a federal-law-flouting 28 mph. This prompted a round of jokes about Justice Department investigations and the dangers of high speeds, not all coming from me. My minder expressed frustration at the onerous Low Speed Vehicle (LSV) laws, pointing out that states are repealing them. When asked about the federal laws which trump state deregulation, all I got was a vague “Miles is working on that.” Questions about a planned $30k, highway-capable EV sedan get the same answer.

But despite the ZX40S’s many shortcomings and the wide variety of far more capable vehicles available for $15-20k, the Miles is selling. While Xebras sit, unloved and unloveable. If the speed regulator and weak-sauce range aren’t enough to turn you away, the Miles does everything an LSV should. It’s got a flexible design with space for a small family, and it exudes an undeniable quirky charm.

But take care not to take on the ZX40S’s eco-friendly compromises too lightly. Buy one and you will be constantly reminded of your dedication to environmental sustainability. Like, whenever you try to buckle your seatbelt. Or spend five minutes trying to start the thing. Or watch your interior rattle itself apart at 25 mph.

The bottom line is that it will never match similarly-priced (or cheaper) “real cars” like the Fit or Yaris in quality, performance or usability. If your mantra is “earth first” rather than “pocketbook first,” the ZX40S may be your best bet.

In a few years, we might not have much of a domestic car industry anymore. And I’ll be grumpy, because despite all the stupid General Motors made out over the years, from crappy products (Equinox) to crappily built products (everything from 1972 to 2002), they really had some cars that were fascinating to car lovers. And that’s part of why they’re going out of business: they made interesting cars with mediocrity. They should have stuck to Toyota’s business plan and made extremely boring cars very well. In Europe, though, that’s what GM did. I’ve just driven the Vauxhall Zafira, and I can tell you that if GM had it in America they’d be trillionaires. Because it’s the most boring car I’ve ever driven.

My brand new, rented test model is the Vauxhall Zafira SRi 1.9 CDTi. What, pray tell, is a Vauxhall Zafira SRi 1.9 CDTi?, you might be asking. Vauxhall is one of GM’s three European brands. As for the name “Zafira,” it is, of course, is a six to seven passenger people mover. And Zafira is also a Hungarian porn actress, as I learned from Wikipedia. I swear.

The Europeans call cars like this people movers because that’s pretty much all they do. Alternatively, they call them MPVs (multipurpose vehicles). These unimaginative names are appropriate for the Zafira, which is as exciting as Kleenex. Among this class of cars, the closest approximations we have in the top two-thirds of North America would be the Mazda5 and Kia Rondo.

The design of this second generation Zafira looks like a big Saturn Astra, because that’s basically what it is – a big Opel/Vauxhall/Holden/Saturn Astra. While my car-geek eyes tell me the Zafira is a cleverly packaged compact MPV, lay people don’t care about the marketing. My girlfriend appropriately asked “why did you rent us a minivan?”

The interior is just as boring as the exterior. Do you know the color “coal?” It’s like black, but coal. Think of such exciting and uplifting things as: charcoal, coal mines, and uh, coal. The fit and finish for the Zafira is quite good by American standards, but nothing to make you think you’re in a luxury car. In fact, some glaring interior design flaws made me wonder whether anyone tested this car before putting it on sale. The radio buttons on the dashboard, for example, aren’t backlit. Why? Because coal is dark.

Fortunately, the seats are amenable to several passengers, because for heaven’s sake, that’s the Zafira’s raison d’etre. The “Flex 7” system lets you flip, flop, and fold the seats into the floor with great ease, or haul around six passengers in relative comfort. So, mission accomplished? Yes. And once the engineers realized they could fit seven people into the Zafira, and that the seats folded into the floor, they went home. That explains the radio.

We can begin with the 1.9-liter diesel engine. With turbocharging, the engine in my test car was up to 150 horsepower (base is 120), and a respectable 236 lb ft of torque. What this means is that from the outside, the Zafira sounds like a rusty, broken old tractor. With a scorching case of herpes. I’ve heard 20-year old Peugeot 505s in my town with better sounding diesel engines. Behind the wheel, the Zafira’s engine is quieter, but ample road noise makes sure to spoil your conversations.

Hit the gas pedal and whooooa that’s some slow, low torque. It’s like driving a very big, very lazy V8 engine. With plenty of twist available, the Zafira doesn’t hesitate to accelerate, it’s just not a fast process. I never felt that it was slow, or that I’d have trouble merging. But there is absolutely no doubt that the “hot” version with a turbocharged 2.0-liter gas engine and 240 horsepower is the one I’d be buying. Except for the rest of the driving.

The Zafira handles just well enough, just firmly enough, and has just quick enough steering to make it not exciting – good or bad. You don’t have the funny experience of driving a Chrysler minivan, or a Ford Expedition in all of its ponderous glory. That’s what makes the Zafira so painfully dull. It’s not fast, it’s not tippy, it’s not slow. It just moves around adequately enough and then delivered 36 U.S. miles per U.S. gallon on the U.K. highway.

Frankly, I’ve forgotten if the car had a transmission at all, or what color it was painted, or if I left anything in it. The Zafira is what the Men in Black would drive in Europe, because it is completely unmemorable.

So, it’s boring, extremely practical, fuel efficient and boring. Shall we slam GM now for never bringing it to America? Well, no, Americans never dig a car like the Zafira. At least if they had sold it in the U.S. it would have been rare enough to be interesting.

The H3’s primary selling point is– was– its cartoonish appearance. Sporting some muscular, Gubernator-inspired styling, the H3 comes accentuated by poseur-approved chrome grill, fake hood vents, chrome step bars, an exposed spare and massively over-sized fender flares. There’s mucho machismo to be had here. Unfortunately, many of the details are perfect targets for rocks, dirt, boulders and whatever nature offers to thwart even the most timid off-roader. Everywhere it went, the H3 stood out as a poseur in a cheap tux amongst the barebones off-roaders that showed their battle scars with pride.

The H3’s exterior dimensions promise space and convenience nowhere to be found on the inside. The back seat offers the same room as any family sedan; it’s utterly cramped with three adults. The trunk’s even worse. With two huge intrusions on either side, the H3 struggled to hold three suitcases and two duffel bags, a load that would easily fit into any station wagon or large sedan on sale today.

Unique styling cues from the H2′s cabin are nowhere to be found except on the horn. The H3, sadly, is just another GM truck. Bearing a steering wheel and a center stack most Chevrolet owners could operate blindly, the H3 utterly fails to live up to HUMMER’s “Like nothing else” slogan.

That said, the H3 benefits from GM’s other, more recent truck interior re-designs. The leatherette seats are supportive and comfortable. The steering wheel itself is pleasant to grasp, though the observation comes from a recovering Pontiac Grand Prix renter. The center arm-rest is well placed for long rides. And truth be told, it’s difficult to slag the H3 for the rest of the cheap plastics that permeate the interior, since its supposed off-roader mojo lends itself well to cheap, frugal materials.

The H3′s heart is its tragic flaw, its Achilles’ heel. No matter what speed or gear I hit, WOT and all, the result was the same: epic engine thrash and acceleration so gradual it wouldn’t spill your coffee. Worse yet, coming off higher revs, the engine tended to hang, which lead to lurching upshifts courtesy of the confused slushbox. In a vehicle with an MSRP that touches $30k (good luck with that), the lack of refinement is staggering.

To say the peculiar I5 is utterly defeated by the H3’s mass is to unabashedly don the mantle of Captain Obvious. As to why GM chose the I5, I’ll leave the speculation to you. It clearly wasn’t economy. In 128 miles of equally mixed city, highway and off-road driving, the H3 attained an abysmal 9.8 mpg.

If you ever muster the patience required to push the H3 to 80 mph, you’ll need a project management certification to operate the equally overmatched brakes. No seriously. Braking in the H3 required such advanced planning that I found myself checking out the GPS screen to identify upcoming turns.

Looking to ride and handling in the hopes of redemption are futile, even by truck standards. Weighing about 500 lbs. too much, the H3 transmits everything to its owner. Drive down the smoothest of highways and the vibrations will make you think the tires are made of solid rock. It’s Jeep Syndrome to the 10th degree. A combination of mass and crappy brakes makes the H3 prone to bus-like understeer, and hitting four-wheel drifts on bumpy gravel roads was pathetically easy.

On the trails is where the H3 finally appears to be in its element. The H3 with locked differentials is a redoubtable climber. Similarly, it handles boulders, crevasses, mud, dirt and (yeah, I admit it) sidewalks and medians without protest. The gloriously underpowered truck is easy to modulate with the throttle and power-braking. But then, how many H3 owners will risk scuffing-up its make-up by removing it from its pavement? That’s what I thought.

GM tried to make the H3 be all things to all people, and therein lays the problem. The H3 will do anything you ask of it, but none of it well. It’s too hardcore for the road, too pretty for the outback, too cramped for an SUV and too listless for the highway. Worse yet, in the age of the Prius, the H3’s image is decidedly out of date. As an exemplar of how GM can suck the lifeblood from any car brand, the H3 is as good/bad as it gets. As anything else, it’s just plain awful.

Ten Best Nominations Are Now Closed

The truth hurts. But not always. Sometimes the truth about cars is the key to genuine insight and automotive ecstasy. This is one of those times, when TTAC's Best and Brightest select their annual Ten Best automobiles. In other words, this is your chance to help the wider world discover genuine automotive excellence, and reward those who produce it with a much-deserved hat tip. The name of this collective endeavor changes, but the rules remain the same: you nominate the cars, our writers narrow your selection to 20, then you get the final say on the Ten Best [more details below]. But before we get stuck in, here's a recap of last year's winners…

To refresh your memory, here are last year's winners and what we had to say about them.

10.  Audi RS-4 -  How about a 4.2-liter engine cranking out 420hp, all-wheel drive, precise steering, ohmigod brakes and a [nearasdammit] racing suspension? All we can say is: who's your Daddy?

9.  Infiniti G35 -  The smart-handling Infiniti G35 makes Lexus owners wonder what IS is, and forces 3-Series owners to check both their rear view mirrors and diminishing bank balances.

8.  Acura TSX – Purposeful design, aggressive good looks, inspired handling and excellent build quality make the Acura TSX a heady yet elegant brew.

7.  Porsche Cayman – If and when the Sultans of Stuttgart give their whipper-snapper more power, it will add "unassailably" to "best."

6.  Mazda MX-5 -  Whether you're a hard core enthusiast attacking an apex or a retiree enjoying a bit of drop top nostalgia, the still-svelte third gen Miata is the simplest, best handling, most fundamentally honest and joyful automobile made. 

5.  Subaru WRX / STI - The WRX is working class hero, while the STI is destined to end the decade as the benchmark for compact sports sedans.

4.  Mazda Mazda3 / Mazdaspeed3 - The Mazda3 offers family-friendly fun to the financially fastidious F1 fantasist. The Mazdaspeed3 retains these virtues, kicks it up a notch, and eats the competition for lunch.

3.  Porsche 911 – Whether it's maximum lateral G's or vanishing point-and-shoot, Porsche's "everyday" supercar offers terminal drivers terminal velocity.

2.  Chevy Corvette / Z06 – The endlessly rejuvenated Corvette shows what American automakers can do when the beancounters take a back seat to engineering excellence.

1.  BMW 3-Series – The completeness of the 3-Series' dynamic package- ride, handling and brakes- puts the Zen into zenith. In a world of reliable mediocrity, driving the 3-Series remains a peak experience.

Are these still the best things on four wheels? Or did 2008 bring new players into the arena?  There's only one way to find out.

2008 TTAC Ten Best Rules of Engagement

1. To qualify, a vehicle must be offered for sale as a new vehicle in the U.S. between Jan 1, 2008 and now. Where it's built, where the company is headquartered, sales volume, price or neat swag from the manufacturer play no part in the selection process.

2. We'll only accept nominations that give at least one legitimate reason why a vehicle qualifies for the award. It helps if you've had some time behind the wheel and can pass along first-hand experience.

3. Nominations that don't include justification, just say "me too" or similarly indicate lack of mental prowess and it will simply disappear. Boom! Gone.

4. If you disagree with a particular nomination, feel free to offer an opposing view. However, TTAC's posting policy is in full force. Anyone who flames (personally attacks) the website, its authors or fellow commentators will have their comment deleted and face a permanent posting ban.

5. Once nominations are closed, TTAC's writing staff will gather in a secret e-conclave to select 20 finalists from the nominees. The more eloquent the nomination, the better chance it has of surviving our (let's face it) subjective process.

6. We will submit these 20 finalists for your consideration. You may vote (via an electronic poll) for up to ten vehicles on the list which you deem worthy of a place TTAC's Ten Best.  Don't get carried away, though. We're going to do everything we can to prevent voting improprieties. After all, this isn't Chicago!

7. Nominations begin now and run through midnight Saturday, August 9 (all times EDT). We will publish the 20 finalists for voting first thing on Wednesday, August 13. Voting will close  midnight Saturday, August 16. The winners will be announced on Monday the 18th. These dates may slip a bit if our Managing Editor gets distracted by something shiny. Since they ignore our press releases, winning manufacturers will find out the same way everyone else does.

Post your nominations with the required justification(s) below. We couldn't/wouldn't do this without you. To quote that great philosopher Frank Bartles, we thank you for your support.

Ten Best Nominations Are Now Closed

My questions were answered two weeks later at a ride-and-drive in Southern California. There I was, strolling through the SUV staging area, when Alpha struck again. “Gahh! The glare!” Shielding my eyes against a blinding sun-on-chrome conflagration, I winced to make out the telltale Alpha badge, applied to a suspiciously bling-encrusted H3. Hang on. A glammed-up H3? This is what’s got HUMMER’s ad men revving-up their bollock-swinging routine?

Well, erm… yes. But what HUMMER’s particularly pumped about is Alpha’s 5.3-liter, 300hp V8, borrowed from GM’s full-sized pickups. Like an under-endowed divorcee's post-surgical-enhancement, this H3, freed of its flaccid five-cylinder powerplant, has something to prove. Thing is, most women I know are turned off by insecurity. Which makes me wonder what my virtual girlfriend saw in Alpha in the first place.

To be honest, I’m a little unclear on exactly what a virtual girlfriend is (anyone know?). This being a HUMMER, though, styling seems the most likely explanation for unfaithfulness. Females account for nearly half of all remaining H3 sales; there’s no denying the wee war wagon’s considerable road presence. The H3 shouts for attention with only slightly more decorum than Don Imus on PCP, but if the point is to cut a dash outside Designer Handbags Inc., then— in the words of the Prez— “mission accomplished.”

Unfortunately, like G-Bu’s premature announcement of Mesopotamian mastery, the H3 lacks substance in details. The hulking hood vent is a blanked-off fake. So are the A-pillar “snorkel” intakes. The chromed step bars protrude far enough to soil your pant leg, but not enough to assist entry. Want a roof rack for all the “active-lifestyle” gear you may or may not be toting? Hit the options list.

Never mind. Any virtual girlfriend worth virtually stealing knows what really counts is on the inside. So hoist yourself aboard and lose yourself in GM’s G.I. Joe fantasy land. A square, upright windshield frames the H3’s square, upright hood. Tiny windows rise to chin height, leaving thigh-width roof pillars to blot out the sun. A hatch-mounted spare obscures trailing plebes. Visibility? Hey, it’s not like everyone won’t see you. There’s also a big chrome “Alpha” badge on the steering wheel boss. You know, in case you forget how awesome you are.

But even here, towering above the commuters, the H3’s shallowness of character chips away at the escapism. You’ve seen these window switches and HVAC knobs before— in rental cars. On the positive side, the cabin’s squishy, grained plastics are indicative of GM’s recent efforts to increase quality, and would seem quite posh at some price points. But… ahem… you haven’t seen the price yet.

It’s $39,560. As in, near-as-dammit $40,000. Which means you could buy a Cadillac SRX V6 AWD instead, pocket $435, and rent a few Jeeps to get your off-road jollies. Or treat yourself to an all-wheel-drive Lexus RX 350 and put $760 in the adventure fund. Granted, brand devotees may happily pay a premium to own a part of the HUMMER mystique. But given the $8,565 leap over a base H3, even they might be miffed that the sticker doesn’t include a sunroof ($950), a rearview camera ($850), or DVD entertainment ($1,928).

There a few other essential features missing in the Alpha dog of the H3 range. One is interior space. While the HUMMER’s height and bulk lend it a certain psychological roominess, the tape measure reveals less legroom at the con than a Chevy Cobalt. Move around back, carefully negotiating the narrow door openings, and you’ll find economy-class knee room on a squashy, too-low rear bench. The cargo area is similarly compact, accessed through an awkwardly heavy side-hinged hatch.

“But wait,” fans protest. “You haven’t even mentioned the Alpha’s trump card.” Ah, yes: the all-beef V8. The Vortec’s a smooth talker, that’s for sure. Its deep burble fits the H3’s character far better than the bronchitic braying of the base five. And 0 – 60 improves to minivan-grade: 8.9 seconds. Otherwise, the Alpha’s dynamics are a rerun. Same hefty but numb steering, same rubbery ride, same squidgy path control you’ll find in any heavy vehicle with very tall sidewalls.

The truth is, girlfriends— virtual or otherwise— tend to trade in characters like Alpha pretty fast. His clothes are too loud. He drinks too much. And he doesn’t give her enough space. Sorry, Alpha. I strongly suspect that, when the five-year reunion rolls around in 2011, you and your big brothers won’t be joining us.

Clearly, aesthetics were not Alfa's main problem. Penned by the original Battista "Pinin" Farina in 1966, the Spider's basic shape is a hallmark of automotive design. Twenty years on (and another twenty years later), the deceptively simple and perfectly curvaceous sheetmetal still looks weak-in-the-knees gorgeous.

The only exterior indications that you're looking at an entry-level version of the car: the "Graduate" badge on the tail and steel wheels that fill the Spider's wheel arches to perfection. They may be the "cheap" wheels, but the honest steelies with the graceful chrome ring and polished steel hubcaps nicked from the family silver could not fit more ideally with the car's mid-Sixties lines.

Alfa marketed the Graduate for the (true) enthusiast. In other words, they stripped the Spider's interior like it had set off the airport security metal detectors. Gone were the power windows, leather seat upholstery, air conditioning, radio and cloth top. In their place: hand cranks, delete plates, and more vinyl than your average half hour on the SciFi Channel. In fact, apart from the decidedly-non-standard Alpine radio unit, the Spider's interior had four buttons: a hazard light switch, a fan switch for the heater, a rear window defroster switch (that served no identifiable purpose) and a horn.

Slip inside the Spider, and marvel at God's Own Seats. The chair offer easy ingress and exit. They're also supremely comfortable yet surprisingly supportive through the bends. Gingerly run your fingers over the Spider's lacquered wood steering wheel rim and shift knob, and look at your reflection in the chrome metal of the steering wheel.

Making love to the machine may distract you from a console that pinches your right leg against the steering wheel. And the fact that the helm's mounted at a strange angle and sits just that little bit too far away for our particular branch of the simian species. (Lest we forget, Dustin Hoffman was 5'5" when he chased after Mrs. Robinson's daughter.) The quality of the Spider's plastics lie somewhere between your neighbor's old Suburban and a gas station sandwich's plastic container.

Forget the ergonomic woes (as you must). Let's see how she drives.

Twisting the key (carefully) brings the Spider's all-aluminium twin-cam two-litre highly-hyphenated inline four to life. (Temple of VTEC worshippers may not wish to note that the Alfa Romeo Spider was the first production car to use variable valve timing back in 1980, beating Honda's V-Tec system by almost ten years.) The Alfa's Twin-Cam engine, as experienced, in theory, best case scenario, produces 115 horsepower a bit past 5,000 rpm, and 120 lbs. ft. of torque just before 3,000 rpm.

Unlike the Gregorian crescendo of most modern engines, the Alfa's four roars like a wounded beast, with just enough thrash to let you know its mechanical heart is beating with the explosive deaths of millions of hydrocarbons.

Let me be blunt: the Spider isn't a sports car. The so-called sprint from zero to sixty will take you nine and a half seconds. And if "slow" and "sports" are a problem, you're not going to happy that the Spider's chassis is the world's least rigid monocoque; the scuttle-shake over bumps is… awesome. And understeer cuts in far too soon for my liking– as in any time you push it through a corner.

The Alfa is at its best cruising spiritedly down a moderately serpentine road. The wonderful five-speed manual and admirable below-the-limit grip let you enjoy the occasion of driving an Italian roadster at speeds that won't threaten your license. Enthusiasts can exploit a healthy performance aftermarket, but a stock Mazda Miata makes more sense on every level save the sensual and nostalgic.

Simply put, the Spider is a Riviera roadster. The Alfa's main mission: driving along a waterfront on a bright summer day with the top down and a beautiful woman sitting in the passenger seat, trailing a mile-long scarf. Anything else? Rain? Cold? Snow? High-speed runs? Fuhgeddaboutit.

Che te lo dico a fare? Everyone knows the Alfa Spider was a toy that broke even (especially?) if you never drove it. In these days of J.D. Power outages, if and when the Alfa brand returns, style will not be enough. Must. Do. Better. Let's hope the Alfa's body is strong and the spirit is even more willing.

Bottom line first. Eurozone consumers can buy a Renault-Nissan developed Dacia Logan for €7500. Back in 2003, that price equated to about $5500 or about twice as much as Tata Motors' theoretical Nano. Today, thanks to a weak Yankee greenback, the base Logan translates to $11,650. But keep in mind that the Logan is a world car, built in Mioveni, Romania; São José dos Pinhais, Brazil; Medellin, Colombia; Moscow, Russia; Casablanca, Morocco; Nasik, India and, yes, Tehran, Iran. Your currency may vary.

From the outside, you wouldn't know the [Euro] Logan's a bargain basement whip. Note the even panel gaps, high-quality paint and almost-acceptable proportions. The Logan looks utilitarian, solid. Ground clearance is third-world- sorry, developing nation compatible. Also to that end, the Logan's enormous hold (24.7 cubic feet) is considerably more capacious than a Mercedes C-class wagon. And with an optional rear row, the Logan seats seven or more (police and safety be damned). Basically, the Logan is station wagon as mini-van.

Unfortunately, the Logan pretends to have a car's interior. Anybody who says that space is the ultimate luxury has never sat in a Dacia. Although the Logan's cabin's been assembled properly, the interior makes an outhouse seem like a penthouse. The materials are hard, scratchy and odd-smelling. Colors are various shades of tombstone gray, ailing mouse, funeral black and deep-pit coal. The single-piece, injection molded dash is as ugly as it is durable. Everything you see and touch is unnecessarily dire.

Luckily, this ain't no living room. The Logan's [optional] diesel powerplant is a pleasant surprise: a bang-up-to-date 1.5-liter common-rail oil burner. The mini-mill may only stable 86 horses, but it delivers strongish torque from 1200 to 4000 rpm in a perfectly linear fashion, and does so less noisily than VW's TDI engines. Even better, the Logan only weighs around 2800lbs. So the car rockets from 0 to 60mph in… wait for it… almost there… 15 seconds. Your problem being?

At autobahn speeds of around 90 mph the Dacia feels almost as unhappy as a moped. Still, in the interests of TTAC's Best and Brightest, I recorded an average of 38mpg. But when in Rome, you do as the Romanians do. When I backed off to around 75, the fuel efficiency rose well into the forties.

The Dacia's handling offers another pleasant surprise. The Logan is softly sprung for pot-holed eastern European roads; it's both comfortable and quiet. Thanks to sufficient damping, the Logan feels well-controlled through the inevitable bumps- a sea change from bouncy and harsh Dacias of old (also based on Renaults). The Logan doesn't hop or skip over rough roads or expander joints; neither does it lose its cool over load-change issues.

The Logan's steering is exact and proportional, giving sublime tactical feedback through twisty European back roads. The transmission is slick and smooth. Combined with the straightforward engine, the Logan is a package you can actually, gulp, hustle. I found myself having unexpected fun, and I didn't have to drive at racetrack speeds (as if) to enjoy myself.

It's not too much of a stretch to call the Logan an intriguing modern-day interpretation of the Volvo 240. The Logan's cheap, robust and easy-to-repair; ideal for struggling economies and rugged roads. Stay away from any and all options– the diesel (a 1.4-liter petrol engine comes standard), air conditioning, electric windows– and the Logan's priced well below the competition. For a young, hard-working family with a few kids and a dog, there is no better deal. It's not for nothing the Dacia Logan leaped to the top of the Euro sales charts. And yet…

It's also not for nothing the Logan crash test is so popular on YouTube. Clearly, dramatically, the Logan is no Volvo. While it has front airbags in Euro-spec, many national versions of the car do not. In a German slalom test, the Logan rolled over at 65 km/h- albeit on worn tires (like that'll ever happen). And, again, the Logan's hideous interior would test the will of a Spartan. As Auto, Motor und Sport put it, "this is a car for those who have little financial power, but plenty of mental fortitude."