Wednesday. The one day we both have off. And while we may be adventurous about where we take jobs, we are less so when it comes to “date” night … so it was dinner and a movie again.

Except that dinner this time was not at our favorite Indian place,  Nihal … but instead about 200 yards away, at a Mediterranean restaurant named “Lebanese Mill.”

We had been there once before, and liked it,  and Leah had Indian last night at another place, so …

Lebanese Mill it was.

One appealing aspect of Lebanese Mill is how multicultural it is. Its clientele is a microcosm of Abu Dhabi — which is about a million people from nearly every corner of the Earth living and working in close quarters … and hardly ever killing each other. Doesn’t that seem fairly unique?

So, anyway, I wanted to be a multicultural exemplar myself. But it didn’t quite work out.

The Lebanese Mill is known locally for its roasted chicken. Lots and lots of it that it sells out a window that opens on the street. But it also has a small sitdown area inside,  and another area with tables next door in what is essentially a dirt lot.

This is legit, hole-in-the-wall, local-local food. Cheap and hearty. In a completely unpretentious setting that is not a place that tourists or wealthy expats would visit.

In our previous trip,  I had had a shawarma sandwich, and Leah had the grill (three or four different sorts of meat) … and it was nice. But as we sat there we realized the Lebanese Mill was doing a booming business selling chicken. People of a half-dozen nationalities were lined up out to the street to pick up chickens. About a half-dozen guys were bustling inside a small kitchen area, packaging chickens, halving them, putting a new batch on the giant rotating, wood-fire rack …

So,  going back, we decided we had to ordere the chicken.

Again, it was a mini United Nations in there. All the Lebanese employees. A couple of Westerners (who weren’t us). A family of three that appeared to be Indian. A family of four that I decided were Egyptians. Some Pakistanis. A trio of Emiratis in their long, white dish-dash robes — known around here as “national dress.” Indonesians coming in to buy chicken. And orders being taken and filled in Arabic and English and maybe Urdu, too.

I ordered a half-chicken from the rotisserie. It came with hummus and pita bread and French fries. Leah got the lamb kefka, which came with bread and onions. We got an enormous salad plate of rocket/arugula lettuce and pickled vegetables, and each of us ordered juice — fresh-squeezed orange for me and lemon-mint for Leah. The lemon mint was so good, I decided it ought to be a soft-drink flavor.  But I digress.

The charm of this place, besides its manic energy, is how inexpensive it is.  My half-chicken with fries and hummus cost 17 dirhams. That’s less than $5. Leah’s lamb kefka was about $7. And we’re talking about a lot of food. With the hummus and the salad and the garlic paste.

So, mostly, I’m doing well. No international incidents. And finally I called for the bill from the one guy who speaks a bit more English than the rest of the wait staff. A guy who seemed to remember us from our previous visit and was quite pleasant to us right from the start, encouraging us to wait a moment for seating when we first came in and saw the place packed.

He brought the bill and it was in Arabic. Only. Including the numbers.

And by now, I should recognize their numbers immediately. I see them on license plates every day. But I choked.

Our bill was 77. But the sevens here are shaped like the letter V. So it wasn’t 77 in the Western sense.

So what was it?

The waiter looked at me.  I knew he was waiting to see if I could figure it out. I started thinking of all the numbers, beginning with nine, which looks like 9, and eight, which looks like an upside down V. … And I knew it wasn’t a two, which looks like a backward 7, nor a three, which is a backward 7 with wrinkles in the top …

And the waiter got tired of waiting for me to figure this out.  I glanced up and he was holding up six fingers. Of course. The numbers were two sixes — and a six is rendered here in what we would call a seven. Our bill was 66 dirhams — or $18.

He didn’t seem annoyed that he had to signal me the cost. That I didn’t know the numbers. But I felt as if I had failed.

I had done the multicultural,  Abu Dhabi-melting-pot thing. I had hung out and had chicken along with dozens of people from all over the region … but at the end I couldn’t remember the number six. And I didn’t fit in as well as I hoped I would.

Sheesh.

I tried to make up for it, a few minutes later, by using the Arabic for “thank you” — shokrun — when exiting a cab. But the driver almost certainly was a native Urdu speaker, and me thanking him in Arabic probably was no more meaningful to him than saying it in English. So.

Next time we go to the Lebanese Mill … I will rehearse the numbers before I get in the door. Certainly before my half-chicken and fries arrives on the table.