A Friday night, finished with work fairly early … we decided to go to the leading Mexican restaurant in the city.

Let’s call it El Serape, which is not its real name, but everyone who lives in Abu Dhabi, especially the North Americans, will know what place I mean.

We could not get a reservation because it was “all you can eat” night. But we had a guest with us, and a sort of collective resolve developed that we would show up and would be able to get a table. Eventually. People don’t eat late, in this town. We would wait them out.

Once we were on site, we realized why it might be a while before we got a table.

Because of expats behaving badly.

For 195 dirhams each, or about $54, your group can eat and drink as much as you want.

And El Serape serves tequila and, of course, margaritas.

Making an all you can eat and drink a bad idea.

It was mostly an American audience, I fear, because no one misses Mexican food as much as do Americans — aside from Mexicans, presumably, but Mexicans are not in the UAE in any sort of numbers. And I heard more than a few American accents.

We edged our way to the little table next to the four-chair bar, and managed to order a pitcher of margaritas, which took about 25 minutes to happen because the barkeep was producing pitcher after pitcher of margaritas for the boisterous (and becoming more so) patrons.

It was a dull roar in there, even when the three-person band was taking a break. By about 10 p.m., apparently every table in the place decided they had someone with them celebrating a birthday, and singing the birthday song turned into a riotous (and highly amusing) display.

It might even have been the birthday song that produced the first conga line, probably 20 people cha-cha-cha-ing through the restaurant. Perhaps all of them having taken advantage of the “all you can drink” aspect of the evening with a more liberal approach than was wise.

Plate after plate of all-you-can-eat food was taken back untouched, which I suppose happens in that sort of situation.

And, finally, we figured out why we couldn’t get a reservation — because once all the tables were spoken for, nobody left. It was a nighttime version of the Friday afternoon expat indulgence — the boozy brunch which goes on forever.

So, people just kept gulping margaritas, and the behavior generally disintegrated.

What had seemed a confused and hapless staff, when we arrived, began to become understandable. They were harried because they knew they were 1) dealing with a room of drunk people, 2) and none of the patrons were ever going to leave and 3) thank goodness this happens only once a week, because the scene was nearly out of control and people seemed to be spilling stuff everywhere.

Another weird moment was when one of the wait staff lit off something, for the amusement of the table behind me, and it turned into a huge flame that nearly scorched the ceiling — and produced some vile stench that soon had everyone helplessly coughing and sent me entirely out of the resto for a while to let the air clear. For all I know, one of the guests called for the extra special fire that almost turned into something really dangerous.

Anyway, everyone there was old enough to know better. Even the twentysomethings.

In the UAE, getting hammered in public is a bad idea, and we all know it. It can end with someone in jail.  And being drunk in public is offensive to many Muslims, who comprise the majority here.

Sure, a drink or two, and some enchiladas or a burrito or a chicken quesadilla (I can vouch for the latter), and then you’re out.

If you want to let people drink to excess … you do that in a private home. We all know that.

When we left, most of the people there when we arrived were still in their seats, still ordering up pitchers of margaritas. Someone else’s birthday was about to be celebrated. Surely, the trio was about to sing Guantanamera (a Cuban song, but well known to Americans) to a insensate accompaniment.

We picked our way past the puddles and the spilled food, and made a mental note not to go back on a Friday night … and saw one youngish Emirati, in a kandura, sitting at the bar and watching — with what appeared to be amusement.

And I felt bad that the wait staff associated the whole mess with my fellow American expatriates.