I’ve taken delivery of the 2012 Bentley Continental GT down the block from Manhattan’s famous Hogs ‘n’ Heifers saloon, where hundreds of bras dangle behind the bar and a guy built like an upright piano warns me, after my pals and I take turns at the loo, that he’ll bend us into pretzels if we snap any pics inside the bar.
“No worries, brother,” I say, but nothing assuages him until Kristy’s Nikon is in its case instead of hanging around her neck.
It’s an ironic slice of life – my $189,000 test car, parked less than 20 feet from me in this once-skeevy-but-now-tony section of town, is a source of constant attention, photo-snapping and red carpet treatment from delivery people, beat cops, fashionistas and swells—and its occupants are growled at like bums.
