Filipino food and line dancing

Last month, our Global Dining Club (six couples with adventurous appetites) ate at a small Filipino bakery and restaurant in an otherwise nondescript strip shopping center that dot Phoenix intersections.
We were the only diners but the place still had a sense of bustle about it. As we ended our meal (delicious except for the dish I ordered that had a bitter taste people were talking about days later) a woman in a swirling black skirt and serious looking dancing shoes began leading two other women and a little girl through a line dance, calling out the steps in a careful, clear way. Evidently, Friday nights at the Filipino restaurant are line dancing nights. No cover. Instruction is free. The woman in the black swirling dress walked through each segment of the dance, calling out the beat and the step, repeating it until she saw that her students had it. Others joined in and she easily incorporated them into the dance, careful to repeat and correct before moving on. She was encouraging, completely understandable and patient without being patronizing. She was like a combination of Cheryl and Julianne on Dancing with the Stars. This woman was a skilled dance instructor.
After 38 years of marriage and endless weddings receptions where I had to bow out of the Electric Slide because I could never get the sequence, I realized this was my chance.
When she was through with one line dance she moved to another and then finally to the Electric Slide, a standard that most already knew but which she nonetheless methodically taught me, anticipating when I would mess up and inserting a reminder before the tricky part arrived.
By the third round, when I was at the head of the line and not following, I had it.
I had it. I could do the Electric Slide.