With nearly a half-million shiners’ worth of mobile luxury at our command, we set out to do something, well, costly. Something that involved some real palm grease, some major jack. You know, the long lolly, the heavy spondulicks.

So we drove to the Drake Hotel in Chicago, where we became embroiled in a modest contest to see if we could purchase one of the doormen’s fantastic $2500 Russian Army coats with the gold braids and maybe the bearskin hats thrown in for a few extra shinplasters. But even as we freely peeled off the scrip, the scudos, and the blunt, the doormen proceeded to conduct a back-seat test of their own, and then the cars got spirited off to an underground location unknown to us or even to Randy “Duke” Cunningham.

Fortunately, the Drake features a parlor famous for serving dirty vodka martinis in goldfish bowls, and that’s where we finally poked noticeable holes in our expense accounts and long-term memories.

When the little phosphorescent butterflies had cleared a day or two later, we tried to drive home but wound up at Chicagoland Speedway and then in Kankakee, a town made famous in the Millennium Edition of the Places Rated Almanac for placing 354th out of 354 metro areas. It took a few hours, but we finally got turned in an easterly direction — thanks to the chauffeurs who didn’t know about the martini bar — and fetched up at the art deco Auburn Cord Duesenberg Museum in Auburn, Indiana, where we again felt at home amid status symbols worth the big purse, the large ready, the tall pony.

But here’s a little secret: No editor at C/D will ever earn enough to buy either of these cars, so if you expect us to rate them on some sort of credible fiscal scale, well, just know that one of us spent way, way more at the martini bar than for his hotel room. The cars tested here may be Large and in Charge, but we’re just large around the mouth and in charge of a lot of debt.



2006 Rolls-Royce Phantom
Second Place, Wretched Excess Times Two
Rolls-Royce Phantom

Highs: Serene, stately, cushy, creates a stir wherever it goes.

Lows: Observed fuel economy of 15 mpg, a hood that flutters at speed, creates a stir wherever it goes.

The Verdict: Onlookers are always disappointed it’s only you ensconced in the back seat.

Nobody needs this car. It’s like having the adult-movie concession at the Vatican — amusing but not hugely practical. Which is why bystanders come running to behold it, brandishing cell-phone cameras and emitting the sort of whoops you’d hear at Razorbacks games. At one point, in front of the Drake, we had a dozen animated gawkers gathered on the sidewalk and in the middle of East Walton Place, blocking traffic. An enraged garbage-truck driver honked until he spied the metal monument that was fomenting the commotion. That’s when he abandoned his idling rig and walked twice around the Phantom, smiling and posing the three questions every civilian eventually asks: “Whose is it?” “Can I look inside?” “How much?”

What’s endearing about the Phantom is that it’s such a peculiar stroll down motoring’s memory lane, less like driving a car than shepherding a chrome barn attached to two carriage lamps. It just wafts down the road. Excellent waftability. The hood alone stretches one inch short of six feet. We thus made regular use of the $3300 two-way camera mounted on the bumper, affording a critical left-right view as we cautiously nosed out onto Michigan Avenue. The Phantom is more than two feet longer than the already vast Benz S600 and more than a half-foot taller. A perfect 10 on the international look-at-me scale. In front of Soldier Field, a guy driving a Prius gave us the finger.

Speaking of fingers, the steering is so light that one digit will supply sufficient turning force, and the wheel’s two leather ear grips are positioned weirdly at four and eight — the preferred chauffeur’s grip, apparently, said to mitigate unnecessary and unsettling inputs. The brakes are mushy but gentle, the ZF six-speed kicks down when it’s damn well ready, and there’s not just a ton of body roll but more like 2.9 tons. The air-spring suspension is bungee-cord pliable — the Phantom relaxed its way through our lane-change regimen at the same velocity as a Ford Explorer — and when those huge 21-inch run-flat Goodyears met expansion joints or frost heaves, all we heard inside was a muted “tha-hupp,” like the sound of a banana hitting the kitchen floor.

If you work at it, you can actually hustle the Phantom. You’ll know when you’re hustling it, because the “Power Reserve” gauge reveals, in percentage points, how far you’ve depressed the gas pedal — one of those features that’ll keep you asking, “How much did I pay for this?” This metroliner is fast like a rhinoceros is fast — eminently capable of the feat but content to laze in the sun until all other remedies have been exhausted. The flying lady, way out there on the horizon, sometimes even looks like a rhino’s horn. Or Hillary’s flag atop Everest.

Although the Phantom is mostly the outcome of German engineering, it is suffused with so many eccentricities as to feel 100-percent cor blimey British: The front-seat controls are hidden in the center console. The rear suicide doors — an umbrella stashed in each — whiz shut automatically at the push of a button. The gorgeous analog clock flips on its back to reveal a GPS screen. The fold-down rear writing tables are so beautiful you’ll be reluctant to subject them to the nib of a ballpoint. The headliner is a blend of cashmere and something else — maybe 50-dollar bills. The chrome organ-stop levers on the dash feel as if they weigh two pounds apiece, whereas the leather-clad owner’s manual in fact weighs four pounds. Many of the 50-to-60 individual crown-cut veneers and boxwood inlays are harvested from trees in places we’ve never visited. And when you fire up the 9-amplifier, 15-speaker stereo, it feels as if you’d taken up residence inside the $675,000 Steinway Alma-Tadema.

The whole point of the Phantom isn’t driving. It’s riding. What we have here is mobile furniture — seats and carpets and cabinetry like you’d find in a Lockheed Electra or on an Onassis yacht or in the Orient Express. There are cigar-size ashtrays all over the place, and it smells like the Marlboro Man’s first saddle. We rode in the right-rear seat every chance we could — once for three hours — and never remembered to attach our seatbelts, because why would you belt yourself into a buttery couch in a London smoking room? Back-seat riders immediately acquired a sense of entitlement and began issuing orders: “Just pull up to Starbucks,” I barked at road warrior K.C. Colwell, “and honk until someone comes out.” All rear passengers reliably shed their shoes, as if in anticipation of a business-class flight to Heathrow. The Phantom’s C-pillars swoop down at an angle intended to hide your regal visage from pedestrian riffraff. Look 90 degrees right or left and all you’ll see is the reflection of a true aristocrat in the art deco mirrors — namely, you. And it’s quieter at full throttle and at a 70-mph cruise than that exemplar of tomb-like isolation, the Lexus LS430. Listen to the clock ticking.

Given its price and ostentation, the double-R is a very large target. It’s easy to deride its barn-door grille, squinty eyes, Queen Mary ****, and dry-clean-only lamb’s-wool floor mats.

Nobody needs this car. Everybody wants this car.

NHRA-style acceleration, AARP-style luxury.

Lows: Set aside a week to learn the electronic knickknackery. Maybe two weeks.

The Verdict: If you can think of any other features you’d want on an automobile, stab yourself in the eye.




If you want to know what we think of the S600, read our test of the S550 (February 2006), then apply another $57,500 to the sticker and another 128 ponies to the driveshaft. In the hills, both S-classers drive alike — same moderate body roll, same understeer, same aloof and steely persona. Not hugely involving. In a straight line, though, they’re as different as Warren Harding and Warren Beatty.

The S600 blasts to 60 mph in 4.2 seconds. Know what that means? To 60 mph, this 2.5-ton Teuton is quicker than:

1. A Porsche 911 Carrera S.

2. A Chevrolet Corvette convertible.

3. A Ferrari 612 Scaglietti F1.

The S600 whooshes through the quarter-mile in 12.6 seconds, same as a Lambor*ghini Murciélago. This big Benz’s twin-turbo V-12 manufactures 612 pound-feet of torque as low as 1800 rpm. We once nailed the throttle just as Colwell tried to open the glove box. His arms flailed and thrashed at cabin air, and it wasn’t until the Benz had attained another 60 or so digits that he was able to lean far enough forward to effect any dashboard operations.

0606_wretched_benz_engine.jpgOur shark-gray Merc asked for only 2.7 seconds to transform 50 mph into 70 mph. On two-lane highways, we learned not to floor the throttle until we were in the passing lane. Otherwise, this heavy destroyer was too likely to ram whoever was being overtaken. Here’s something else that’ll amuse and panic your passengers: Set the Distronic Plus proximity cruise control for 120 mph while following, say, a dawdling Ford F-150, then lift your foot completely off the gas. Later, when you pull out to pass, the S600 will automatically proceed to a buck-twenty entirely on its own, as if possessed by the ghost of René Dreyfus, and no red lights or Klaxons or legal warnings will so much as suggest themselves. All of this is accompanied by neither turbo lag nor vibration nor exhaust roar. At every driver swap, we had to glance at the tach to tell whether the V-12 was even reciprocating.

0606_wretched_benz_dash.jpgOur “base” S600 was fitted with all the electronics known to German engineers and a few known only to Homeland Security, and the desirable active body control that cost $3900 on the S550 is here standard. Not to mention brake lights that flash furiously during panic stops and a right-rear seat with eight power comfort adjustments, plus a ninth that automatically slides the right-front seat forward to keep it clear of one’s costly monkey-paw loafers, and pneumatic bolsters that stiffen during cornering so you don’t have to expend any unnecessary energy holding your own torso erect, God forbid.

Did we mention that, during a 70-mph panic stop, the S600 requires only 12 more inches of tarmac than a Mazda RX-8?

0606_wretched_benz_backseat.jpgCompared with the Rolls, this Mercedes resembles some sort of J.C. Penney “Discount Daze” bargain. For the price of our Phantom, you could buy an S600, all seven sedans in last month’s “Cheap Skates” comparo, and more than 14 months’ worth of luxury lodging at the Drake in Chicago. After which, the parking valets will likely give you one of their handmade Russian Army coats, which, we are here to tell you, affect women in a warm and memorable way.

Last February, we called the S550 “the best S-class ever,” but now the S600 is the best S-class ever, soon to be challenged by an S65 AMG that will surely be more potent, making it the best S-class ever, causing some of us to ask, “Why?” This car is already all arrogance and attitude, and every vehicle impeding its progress evokes that German descriptor “Back*pfeifengesicht,” which means “the face that cries out for a fist in it.” All we can tell you is that the S600 feels like the most luxury, comfort, style, speed, subtlety, and glory ever to attach itself to the three-pointed star of Sindelfingen, and you can quote us on that. For a few months, anyway.