From the March 1995 issue of Car and Driver.

The War of the Words began in 1988, when Mazda insisted its new minivan, ah, wasn’t. The company preferred that we call it a “multipurpose vehicle” and officially named it the Mazda MPV. When Nissan introduced its Axxess, well, that wasn’t a minivan either. That was a “tall wagon.” And now Honda has introduced not a minivan and not a tall wagon but a vehicle it would like us to call a “Premium Family Mover.”

We might have expected this. As manufacturers go, Honda is the white-tailed deer of the bunch: lean and agile, you bet, but also preternaturally cautious. The company listens intently, thinks before it moves, and avoids drawing atten­tion to itself. If you are a nervous crepus­cular feeder introducing a minivan, what you do is: (A) think about it for twelve years, (B) curtail comparisons by calling it something other than a minivan, and (C) base the thing entirely on your best­selling product.

Which is why the Honda Odyssey is basically an Accord with a Galapagos tor­toise shell bolted on top. The “Premium Family Mover” has nearly the same four-cylinder engine, transaxle, independent suspension, steering, and switchgear of Honda’s premium sedan. It also has Accord-like swing-out side doors, rather than a lone sliding door. And by current minivan standards, it has a near-minimum wheelbase, length, and weight, not to mention smallest-in-class width and height.

The Odyssey is available in two fla­vors: LX ($23,790) or EX ($25,390). With the exception of a CD player, the EX includes in that price virtually every avail­able feature: alloy wheels, power sunroof, remote door locks, and a six-speaker stereo. There are no suspension or power differences between the two models.

The EX’s standard second-row seats are actually captain’s chairs (as opposed to the 50/50-split fold-down bench in the LX). These two seats afford satisfactory kneeroom and headroom, although the seat cushions are a little low. Meanwhile, the third-row bench is wedged between the rear wheel wells and is thus restricted to 39 inches of width. It is also very much at the back of the bus, jammed to within eight inches of the liftgate, leaving only 10.0 cubic feet of storage behind it—just enough to accommodate my Bill Walton-signature NBA basketball. Kneeroom for third-seat riders is marginal, and their thighs are largely unsupported. Two adult males can sit back there without sustain­ing spinal damage, but for trips surpassing 20 minutes, consult your “Premium Fam­ily” physician. In fairness, Honda does not advertise the Odyssey as a traditional seven-seater; a mere half-dozen is its claim.

The Odyssey’s cockpit may be diminu­tive, but its seats are more quickly removed than those in any other minivan. This is good, because you’ll be removing them often. The middle-row captain’s chairs are held in place by push buttons at each rear corner. Depress both, then pull the bottom-front corners from beneath U-shaped retainers, and they’re out. At only 38 pounds apiece, these seats aren’t dumb­bells, but they are a tight fit as you hoist them through the Odyssey’s swing-out side doors.

Disposing of the rearmost bench seat is slicker still. Simply remove the headrests, twist two latches, and it folds as if by magic into an eight-inch-deep well in the floor. This clever hidey hole is possible thanks to a flat fuel tank mounted amidships and a spare tire mounted in the cargo area.

With its second- and third-row seats AWOL, the Odyssey swallows 51 of our tech department’s official beer cases. That is five fewer than can be carried in what we currently consider a “small” minivan (namely, the Nissan Quest), and 23 fewer than can be transported in a “large” mini­van (namely, the Ford Windstar).

Historically, Honda’s ergonomics are indecently thoughtful, so it is odd that the Odyssey’s are spotty. On the plus side, the sunroof opens and closes with the speed of a guillotine. There is a tradi­tional handbrake on the floor—rare in minivans—plus a handy exterior latch for the liftgate. The nearly two-foot-long wiper blades are spectacular, eradicating raindrops to within two inches of the A-pillars. Doorsill step-up height is low at 15.5 inches (compared with the Windstar’s 17 inches). There are two glove-boxes on the passenger side—and that despite the presence of an airbag.

But it is clear that Honda is new to the minivan game. The column-mounted gear selector, a fresh addition to the corporate parts bin, slides through its detents like semolina through a large water fowl. Shift quickly from Park to Reverse and you’ll often get “D4”; shift quickly from Park to “D4” and you’ll often get “2.” Other omis­sions: There is no tach. The rear wiper has no intermittent setting. And there are only two tiny horn buttons, weird inasmuch as far less enlightened manufacturers have long since figured out how to make the whole airbag-cum-steering-hub a horn.

More bothersome, the driver’s right knee rubs against the radio/HVAC binna­cle. Their right foot sometimes hunts for the accelerator pedal, which is in another area code back there on the toe board. And their left foot is left to flop unsupported in the deep footwell. Where we would expect a dead pedal we found instead a four-inch bulge that houses the hood latch.

The only engine is a modestly tweaked 2.2-liter four from the Accord, now producing 140 horsepower and 145 pound­-feet of torque. (Despite what you may have read, an optional V-6, even for model-year ‘96, is “still in the discussion stage.”) At 3538 pounds, the Odyssey is undeniably svelte-—460 pounds lighter than a Nissan Quest—but, if you drive like we do, pre­pare to listen to this engine rev its guts out. A sprint to 60 mph takes 10.7 seconds, one whole second longer than is required by a Plymouth Grand Voyager and 0.7 second longer than a Windstar LX. Where the lack of punch is more painfully perceived, how­ever, is in the passing lane. Plant your foot at 55 mph and you get a very unsubtle two­-gear kickdown, followed by a max-rev engine roar that lingers unpleasantly until Tuesday. According to our sound-pressure meter, the cacophony is on par with that of other minivans. It’s just that in this application—a whole new acoustic environment for Honda—you find yourself demanding wide-open throttle more often than in anything this side of a Toyota Previa LE, the other people-mover that took serious heat for offering only a four­-cylinder powerplant.

Fortunately, when the road gets kinky, the Odyssey doesn’t. Its just-okay skidpad figure of 0.73 g does not reveal how solidly planted this minivan feels under the whip. The ride is firm without being harsh (the bushings are way beefier than the Accord’s), and body sway is held to a bare minimum, thanks in part to a fat pair of anti-roll bars. The Odyssey’s center of gravity feels down there in station-wagon territory, in stark contrast to the tippy­-canoe motions of this category’s big bruisers, such as the Windstar.

In addition, the Odyssey’s rack-and­-pinion steering is arguably the best in the minivan biz: linear, nicely weighted, with telegraphic road feel, crisp turn-in, and terrific tracking, even in crosswinds. At 37.4 feet, its turning circle is similarly superb, 2.5 feet smaller than a Villager’s.

In fit and finish, the Odyssey is, well, a Honda. Even bumping over Michigan’s frost-wracked landscape, it feels all of a piece: settled, solid, rattle-free, with no subassemblies in motion. Very reassuring.

Despite Honda’s protests, it’s alright to think of the Odyssey a the Lilliput of the minivan kingdom. If you don't load up the whole office for cross-county excursions every day, this is no real penalty box, par­ticularly given the trade-off—a notably nimble, agile vehicle with good handling and great steering. With a little more power, the Odyssey would be the most car­like minivan on the market.

Mind you, if Honda wants us to think we’re driving a car, then a trunk would be nice. In order to use the Odyssey’s “trunk,” we wound up driving virtually everywhere with the third seat neatly stowed. This means we were driving a four-passenger minivan with a base price of $25,390. You can buy an awfully nice station wagon for that sum. One that leaps to mind, ironi­cally, happens to be a mechanical clone of the Odyssey and drives even better. It is called the Accord Wagon. Now there’s a “Premium Family Mover.”

So, Honda thinks adding a couple of inches of space to Mitsubishi’s departed Expo wagon is the secret to minivan success? I don’t buy it. I think Honda produced a more inspired people-and-stuff mover in 1984 with the cultist Civic wagon (named the “Wagovan” in ‘86). This smallest of the tall wagons wasn’t underpowered, the ergonomics were better than the Odyssey’s, it was sports-sedan nimble, and the “real-time” four-wheel-drive model looked bitchin’ with extra-tall snow tires. It died in 1991. If the new, larger wagovan is sucessful, I’d chalk it up solely to Honda’s history of being a masterful sedan builder. —Phil Berg

Parents who suffer from minivan denial may welcome this Odyssey—if not as a cure, at least as a compromise between carlike leanness and minivan utility. Its two rear side doors put an end to the awkward stretch across one child safety seat to buckle up a second. The fold-away third-row seat provides extra passenger or cargo capacity in a flash, with no lugging required. Too bad the view out from way back is truncated by the high-swept beltline. And the oversize speedo looks like a leftover prop from “Bill Nye the Science Guy.” Yes, the Odyssey is a high-priced compromise—not the best of both worlds. —Mary Beth Lewis

I’m less bothered by the Odyssey’s small size than some of my colleagues appear to be. Sure, you have to fold the rear seat to liberate a useful amount of cargo room, but that still leaves four spacious positions for adults, children, and baby seats. Which is enough to accommodate a lot of families, many of whom may appreciate the Odyssey’s smaller, more nimble size and, consequently, place a premium on the Odyssey’s fine road manners. A bit more muscle under the hood would make this case more convincing, but still the Odyssey fills a useful niche in the market. —Csaba Csere