Poor old Dads. No prefix is more maligned. “Dad-bod” describes the pudge-wrapped torso of one who has swapped the bench-press for beaujolais. “Dad-dancing” denotes the kind of pistol fingers, bum-wobble shuffle of someone recovering from an operation in which their sense of rhythm was surgically removed. “Dad-rock,” denotes safe, Radio-2 friendly guitar music. Don’t forget the most disgusting creature in all of politics, the “Centrist Dad”.
This week's food and restaurant news from Port City Foodies and Wilmington StarNews