The first time I went to Spain, in the early 1980s, a friend who had recently been there raved about the bar food called “tapas” and told me to be sure to try some. Her favorite was the fried calamari.

At the time, I thought squid was pretty icky, so I thanked her and filed her advice away along with other helpful hints I was planning to ignore (like “pack toilet paper”).

When we got to Spain, I saw no reason to revise my thinking. I found the local toilet paper supply quite adequate. And when I did finally spot fried calamari, it looked like a decidedly unappetizing pile of big, fat, greasy onion rings.

It now occurs to me that traveling with my parents meant I was not frequenting hip bars at fashionable hours, as my friend had. Plus recall that this was the era of Europe on five dollars a day — a concept my dad could really get behind. I now realize that the tapas in the low-class establishments we stopped into for lunch were the Spanish equivalent of pickled eggs sitting on the counter at a pub — there for those who insist on eating them, but shunned by anyone with taste buds (including me). I usually settled for a jamón sandwich.

So I wish I could spout great memories of first discovering the wonders of tapas in a chic and charming little spot in Seville. But the truth is, it took me another decade to fall in love with the classic bar foods of Spain — and it happened in Washington, D.C., at Jaleo, the city’s first tapas bar and still my favorite DC hangout. One taste of the garlicky potatoes, the shrimp — and yes, the calamari — and I was hooked.

I can’t believe it took me so long to find them. Those little bites and I were meant for one another. On any menu, I admire the experimentation and variety that chefs put into their small plates, and always prefer them to the entrees.

But tapas do have one huge problem — their name. I’m sure it has happened to you, too. Tell anyone where you are going and no matter how well you enunciate, they always hear “topless bar.” The jokes get a bit old. Americanizing it to “small plates” solves the problem but kills the romance.

Fortunately, the unrepentantly separatist Basques have provided a solution, with an alternate Basque name: “pintxos” (pronounced “peen’-shows”). And with their own brilliant regional additions to the menu.

So you can imagine my delight when the host for the most recent meeting of the Cook/Book Club picked a pintxos cookbook And my distress when I found out I’d have to miss the dinner, as it was set for the exact night I needed to be in Los Angeles as part of a birthday surprise for my sister Judy.

I was thinking with longing of the amazing meal my friends were at that moment sharing in Napa as I walked into Bazaar, the terrifyingly hip restaurant my brother-in-law had picked for the birthday dinner. It was noisy. It was fabulous. It shrieked cool design. It was totally L.A. I followed the gorgeous, mini-skirted hostess to the table, feeling more and more matronly, underdressed and hopelessly suburban with every step.

But my sister was blown away by my sudden appearance, so I decided the discomfort of feeling dowdy while dining perched on a minuscule backless chair was worth it. I just hoped the hip décor presaged equally cutting-edge food.

I opened the menu — and now it was my turn to be blown away. Because it turns out Bazaar serves tapas. Or pintxos. Or small plates. Call them what you like — the dishes are exquisite bites of perfection.

And no wonder. It turns out the full name of the restaurant is Bazaar by José Andrés — the now-celebrity chef from my old favorite Jaleo — the very man I credit for my long love affair with tapas.

Chef was in the house that night, and he and his crew outdid themselves. Every dish was delicious, from light-as-air bacalao fritters to pouches of ultra-thin-sliced jicama filled with guacamole. We didn’t order fried calamari, but if we had, I’m sure they would have been exquisite too.

So here’s my travel hint. If you go to L.A., you simply must try the tapas.

And by the way, the bathrooms there are well-equipped: There’s no need to bring your own toilet paper.

Zucchini Carpaccio with Mint and Garlic

I can’t recreate anything I ate in L.A. (I’ll have to wait until Andrés puts out his next cookbook), but the thin-sliced jicama reminded me of this infinitely simpler dish, which I threw together for a party once and have been making ever since. It takes no cooking, looks pretty on the table and works well as an antipasto/tapas. And as we get further into summer, who can’t use another way to disguise zucchini?

3 small, straight zucchini

4 Tbsp. fresh mint leaves

4 Tbsp. fresh parsley leaves

3 cloves garlic

4 Tbsp. high-quality olive oil

1 tsp. capers

Kosher salt

Sea salt for finishing

3 Tbsp. chopped pistachios (optional)

Cut off the ends of the zucchini, then, with a vegetable peeler, carefully cut thin lengthwise slices. You should be able to get about 12-15 slices from each zucchini; each slice should have a slight edge of dark green on both sides. Place the slices in a bowl and salt very well with kosher salt. Set aside for 30 minutes.

In a food processor or by hand, finely chop the mint, parsley, garlic and capers. Add the olive oil and 1/4 teaspoon salt to form a wet paste.

Check the zucchini slices. They should look wet and be a bit softer than when you cut them. (If not, let them sit a while longer.) Rinse them thoroughly to remove the salt, then pat dry. Arrange them on a serving plate in a pinwheel pattern (or whatever pattern you prefer), overlapping them.

Spoon the mint-garlic paste over them, spreading it around with the back of the spoon. Let sit at room temperature for about 30 minutes (or longer) for the flavors to blend further. Just before serving, sprinkle with a nice crunchy finishing salt and the pistachio nuts.

Speaking of small bites, Betty Teller came home to a flea infestation, and wants to ban all fur-bearing mammals from her house. If you have a sure-fire cure, or would like a buggy little critter of your own, contact her at amuse-bouche@sbcglobal.net.