My boy Manny refuses to call me “Mr. Eats,” and I can’t get my best friend Nick to do so either.

No matter … they’re just ignoring the obvious. I have savored more on the culinary front than both men combined. Then again, I’m a lot older.

Mark Twain said it well: “There are basically two types of people. People who accomplish things, and people who claim to have accomplished things. The first group is less crowded.”

Were he alive in the millennium, Twain wouldn’t put Manny and Nick in the first group. Or most of my friends and family. They’ve missed on what Mr. Eats has not: great food.

I have food on my mind now because I can’t shake the steak I ate in Paris this month. I went to dinner with Spencer, a former student, and his wife. They picked Clover Grill, a Michelin-starred restaurant.

There, I ordered a ribeye steak — medium rare. For reasons I can’t explain, I dropped down a notch on how I wanted it cooked. I’d never tried medium rare. Now, I’ll never have anything else.

The steak, juicy and tender with a nice sear, was seasoned well, and I could almost cut it with a butter knife.

I hadn’t had a steak so flavorful since Buenos Aires in March 2018.

Yet as a globetrotter, I can’t think only about ribeyes. I’ve gone to countries where steak isn’t on the menu. In such cases, I’ve had to open my mind to other possibilities.

I’ve no problems doing that.

In Kuala Lumpur, I joined Josh, another former student, and the Lim family for lunch. I couldn’t have found the restaurant Josh picked with a GPS, so buried off the trail as it was. I’m glad he took me there.

I ordered a beef dish with rice, and the broth was so rich in flavor I could have skipped the beef and the rice and had the broth alone.

On a trip to Montreal with Manny, he and I found a bar/restaurant in Quartler des Spectacles and ordered pizzas and beers. If ever a place made tastier pizzas, I’m waiting to find it. The pizzas had the right amount of mozzarella, and the vegetables and beef toppings were fresher than the morning dew.

How do I compare pizza to poutine, a Canadian dish I’d never heard of? I can’t. How do I compare poutine to mofongo, a Puerto Rican dish I’d never heard of? I can’t.

Like poutine, mofongo had my tastebuds dancing the tango. So did a salmon ravioli dish I ate at a restaurant near Austin’s Arts et Metiers Hotel in Paris. Pasta doesn’t get better than this.

Yet I can’t rank ’em. I mean, I had a sweet potato chili concoction on a cruise that rivaled any meal I’d ever eaten for its tastiness and simplicity.

I ate barbecue in Frankfurt, Germany that might easily win a ribs cookoff in Kansas City or Memphis.

While visiting Tokyo, I ordered sushi — the real McCoy, so to speak. For when in Tokyo, of course, I had to do what Tokyoites do: eat sushi.

But I wanted the best sushi I could get. Then a friend who lives there told me bad sushi can’t be found in Tokyo. Any sushi restaurant that’s open serves scrumptious sushi. He said I can pay a lot, but I don’t have to for great sushi.

He was right.

I was fine with all of this, a point I stressed with Manny and Nick. Until their palates mirror mine, my friends need to pay homage. So call me “Mr. Eats,” please!