SHOULD Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg be feeling glum over the death of congestion pricing, his plan to divert drivers onto public transit by imposing an $8 surcharge to motor into the heart of Manhattan, he ought to be cheered by the arrival of the Smart car from Europe.

The Smart Fortwo could do for Midtown gridlock what Mr. Bloomberg’s successful bans on smoking and trans fats did for New Yorkers’ health: after a few miles in this anemic two-seat tomato can, drivers will sprint to the subway and abandon the surface streets for good.

Like BMW’s introduction of the Mini Cooper before it, the Mercedes-built Smart arrives as an appealing alternative for Americans weary of overstuffed cars and overblown fuel prices. Just under nine feet long, the Smart easily kneecaps the 12-foot Mini as a contestant for the smallest car sold in America.

But unlike the mostly fabulous Mini, the Smart Fortwo, with room for just two urban warriors and a few loincloths of cargo, turns out to be a Trojan pony, primitive in its performance and no more fuel-efficient than some far more practical cars.

Sizing up the Smart against a subcompact you’d expect it to get at least 50 miles to the gallon. The Smart design certainly gets the basics right: it weighs just 1,800 pounds and its rear-mounted engine, a 1-liter 3-cylinder power plant of 70 horsepower, is the smallest in the market.

While the Smart has the best fuel-economy rating of any nonhybrid sold in America, you’d expect far better numbers from its bite-size body. Its E.P.A. rating is just 33 miles per gallon in town and 41 on the highway. I averaged an unspectacular 33 m.p.g. over a week of driving.

How can this be? While the Smart has enough power to keep pace with traffic, its engine works so hard that it can’t conserve fuel. By my stopwatch, the car takes more than 14 seconds to reach 60 miles an hour, and it tops out at 90. The engine’s clattering idle was loud enough to make me suspect a diesel under the hood. No dice: The diesel-powered Smart that tops 70 m.p.g. on the European test cycle won’t be coming here.

If the engine is mediocre, the five-speed automated manual transmission is an engineering embarrassment. You could practically squeeze a half-inning of baseball into the maddening delay between the release of one gear and the engagement of the next. The Smart loses momentum in the pause, lurching passengers forward, and then Barcalounges backward when it oozes into a higher gear.

The Smart has been described as fun to drive by some reviewers, but other than showing taillights to the neighborhood riding mowers, I don’t see it. The Smart steers decently but feels clumsy when pushed hard. Tire grip is meager, the body wallows, and big city bumps come crashing through the suspension.

Things are no better on the highway. Wind noise was so intrusive at 70 m.p.h. that I kept thinking the windows were cracked open; the engine buzz added to the din. Ultimately, it feels more a contraption than a car, and it’s a chore to drive.

In its favor, this tall-roof tot is extremely roomy for the driver and a passenger, and it scores well in federal crash testing. I drove a mid-price Passion model, which starts at $14,235; a basic Pure version starts at $12,235, and the convertible tops the range at $17,235.

As Smart tries to jump on the Mini’s bandwagon, some myths need to be addressed. First is that the Smart has been a smash success in Europe. In fact, Smart has been a small but weighty millstone around Mercedes’s neck, never reaching sales expectations and posting more than $3 billion in losses over a decade.

The second myth flows from the first: that the Smart is arriving to show America how small cars should be done. But the Smart isn’t the sophisticated runabout that people might expect.

Sure, the Smart is cute, if you enjoy cars from the Weebles school of design. And it’s ridiculously easy to park. My only pleasure came from slotting the Smart into spots that would have discouraged a St. Bernard.

But the Smart’s diminished size brings diminishing returns. From supermarkets to metered spaces, American parking slots are sized for the biggest cars and S.U.V.’s. Because you can’t straddle the lines at the mall or double up at meters, the Smart offers no advantage there.

The Smart’s only edge is its ability to park motorcycle-style by backing or nosing perpendicular to the curb. Oops, strike that: New York’s parking department said that move is off-limits unless signs specifically allow angle parking for all cars.

Compared with suburb-dwellers, the urban single or family is also more likely to rely on one do-it-all car. That means the versatility to carry friends, escape for a weekend and deal with cargo.

That’s where the Smart gets really dumb. For roughly the Smart Passion’s well-equipped price of $15,510, one could have several pint-sized models — the terrific Honda Fit or Nissan Versa come to mind — that are sportier, hold twice as many people, up to six times the cargo and get nearly the same mileage. (Fold the Versa hatchback’s rear seats, and there’s 50 cubic feet of storage, compared with just 7.8 cubic feet for the Smart).

Here’s what you won’t be hauling in the Smart’s hatch: a cart full of groceries, a guitar case, golf bag or two medium suitcases. And the Smart’s silly pickup-style tailgate forces you to lean against the open gate and reach to grab your stuff.

Smart says that 30,000 people have put down refundable $99 deposits. I have no doubt that initial sales will be strong.

But I’m also convinced that this trendy twerpy ride had better enjoy its welcome. After three years at most, the Smart will begin gathering tiny pieces of dust in showrooms, as Americans discover smarter places for their small-car dollars.

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INSIDE TRACK A minnow not worth hooking.