In the tablao, fingers strum guitars, hands clap byzantine rhythms, heads bend, listening intently to the gravelly voice of a lone singer. The woman next to you suddenly rises from her seat, her face transfixed in a mask of concentration, fingers snapping a morse code intelligible to everyone but you. She raises her arms, relishing the slow burn before exploding into a barrage of stamping feet, whipping turns and circling arms. The night has just begun.