My Pony's Name Is Chief.(American abroad reflects on French penchant for grading and evaluation)(Column)

Byline: David Ray

The day after the 2003 Gault-Millau guide demoted Bernard Loiseau's Cote d'Or restaurant in Burgundy from 19 to 17 points, the famous chef shot himself, leaving behind three children, a wife, several restaurants, a boutique and a frozen-food line. The French were deeply saddened at losing the man who had perfected Bresse chicken poached in an earthenware pot with foie gras and truffles, but they were not surprised.

Making good grades is everything in France. They define your rank and status even more than in America. I discovered this on the AstroTurf in St-Laurent-du-Var, about 20 minutes west of Nice, at my son's football practice. His team of 20 little boys chased the ball like a school of confused fish. The coach yelled at them to separate, to pass, to find the open man, but the pack clumped together in midfield until the whistle blew. Time to grade the boys. One by one each kid was marked on the correct use of his right foot and left, his header and the accuracy of his penalty shot. The alpha males were separated from the runts and the joy of the game was lost, at least for me as I sat with the French mothers, who smoked as much as they complained.

I soon found this was a rather modest grading affair, compared with, say, horseback riding as arbited by the Federation Francaise d'Equitation. After six months astride Chief, my son came home from school with his Attestation de Competences for Level One, Yellow. The document was signed, dated and stamped and listed six clear objectives. Among them: "I know my pony and call him by name" and "I stop the pony in a precise place." Another paper soon followed, accrediting his swimming abilities at level four: "Doing the breast stroke for 25 meters without stopping to float" and "Retrieving an object .80 meters underwater." If only the federation were kind enough to add, "Picks up wet towel and suit from bathroom ...