Before Tracey’s and their mastery of po-boys even existed, Parasol’s was once the kind of falling down dump favoured by locals and sought out by tourists and television crews for its legendary roast beef po-boy. Then the building’s owner booted out the team that had run the bar for a dozen years. They took the cooks, the recipes, and everything not nailed down around the corner to a spot now called Tracey’s. It still has the vibe of the old place. At lunch cops, construction workers, and professionals eat while dedicated imbibers perch at the bar. At night, the neighbours take over, smoking too much and telling off-colour jokes. Most importantly, the roast beef po-boy tastes the same: a meaty hash swimming in gravy that spills out of the crisp loaves of French bread.