This street vendor has sold fruit from the same Boyle Heights corner for more than 30 years

For Cosme Torres, a typical morning starts before the sun even rises. By 6 a.m., the fruit vendor from Boyle Heights has arrived at his storage unit, where he washes his cart, refills condiments and restocks materials.

The next stop is the fruit warehouses in downtown L.A. He goes through boxes of pineapple, watermelon and mango, and carefully handpicks his fruit to ensure quality.

By 1 p.m., he arrives at his destination: the corner of Lorena Street and Whittier Boulevard in Boyle Heights. For the next six hours, he’ll stand underneath a rainbow umbrella and serve customers fruit cocktails dressed with Mexican chili powder and tangy chamoy.

“It’s just love and experience you have for your work,” he says about the long hours he endures as a street vendor.

Originally from the Mexican state of Puebla, Torres moved to Boyle Heights in 1989 looking for work. He worked in the sewing industry in East Los Angeles before his two brothers convinced him to sell fruit out of a cart they named Torres Hermanos. At first, Torres didn’t want to sell on the street; he found it embarrassing, he says. Now, at 52 years old, he’s built a reputation for selling high-quality fruit from his own cart, Torres Fruta.

For over 30 years, he’s set up his stand near the same Boyle Heights intersection known for the large towering Lorena Pharmacy sign. For locals, Torres’ rainbow umbrella has become part of the landscape.

“I always like to buy here because the fruit is good. I bought from the other side [of the street] and it’s very tasteless,” says Juan Hernandez, a regular customer who often shares family updates with Torres. “Que le vaya bien,” he tells him as he walks away. “Hope everything goes well.”

Torres takes pride in knowing his commitment and personal touch have made him somewhat of a local icon—after all, L.A.’s street vendors are part of the city’s cultural fabric. But like many others who make a living selling on the street, Torres has had to endure challenges along the way, from run-ins with police to dealing with the high costs of inflation.

In 1996, Torres decided to stop selling fruit for eight years after he was detained and placed in the back of a police car for several hours amid heated tensions over street vending regulations. Since then, the environment for street vendors in Los Angeles has shifted significantly. In 2018, both California and L.A. decriminalized street vending, but local jurisdictions have taken years to work out the regulations. Most recently, Los Angeles eliminated “no-vending zones,” expanding the areas where vendors can operate.

Torres has always kept up with all health regulations and permits. His cart has a fridge, a hand-washing station and a sign that reads state law requirements for perishable food. But he admits the high cost of produce and permits puts a strain on his financial situation.

Last year, he spent an estimated $1,200 on permits from the state and the Department of Public Health. His average fruit costs range from $800 to $1,000 per week. He takes home about $250 on a good day, although his earnings can fluctuate.

Recent reforms have further alleviated some financial pressures on vendors. This summer, the Los Angeles City Council reduced annual permit fees from $541 to $27.51.

For Torres, these changes offer some relief. Although his children are now adults, he is still the main provider for his wife and young granddaughter.

“[The permit reductions] help a little,” he says. “There are many expenses you can cover with those savings.”

Those savings can also help him offer affordable prices—something that keeps customers coming back.

“I like to support everybody, but [the fruit here] is sweet. He’s really nice, and his prices aren’t [bad],” says a customer who commutes from Rowland Heights and stops to buy fruit from Torres when she’s in the area.

Torres takes pleasure in watching couples grow into families. He still keeps in touch with one family who travels from Seattle to visit him once or twice a year. He proudly shows off his phone, scrolling through photos of him with the family from different summers.

A pregnant woman who lives just a block away from Torres’ stand orders a specific mix of fruit and shares why she relies on the fruit vendor. “It’s easier access to food; it’s within walking distance,” she says. As she leaves, Torres reflects on how he’s witnessed the evolution of her relationship, noting that her boyfriend has been a regular customer for years. He’s seen them grow from a couple to soon-to-be parents.

“If you want to make your client happy, you have to be here,” Torres says, explaining how he doesn’t like to miss days and doesn’t trust any friend or family member to fill in for him.

As the sun sets, churro vendors who were stationed a few feet from Torres on Lorena Street drive by, honking and waving to signal it’s time to go home. Torres is pushing through the 13th hour of his workday.

“All of this gives me pleasure; it makes me happy, and sometimes you make friends,” he says.

Tomorrow he’ll do it all over again.