Street vending is not for the weak.
One of the Mission District’s most recognizable fruit vendors, gray-haired Óscar Olguín, 56, used to rise at 4 a.m. to hit the wholesale market by 5. By noon, he was chopping, hauling and setting up his colorful fruit stand at the corner of Mission and 22nd streets.
After hours of selling, chatting and whacking open coconuts with a single, swift machetazo, he’d pack up once he’d made at least $400, just enough to cover taxes and household expenses.
His four children, now mostly grown, have good careers: one’s a firefighter, another a social worker. They still live at home. There’s still a future to save for.
Olguín used to run a small shop inside the Mission Market Mall, a place called Lucero Produce. But when the market burned down in 2015, he took to the sidewalk to stay close to his customers, even if that meant operating without a permit.
“It’s impossible to get one,” he said. “Whenever the City wants, they can take you off the street.”
He wasn’t wrong. After ignoring repeated warnings not to use his custom-built cart, Olguín says the City confiscated it. The cart was worth $2,800. He chose not to fight it, afraid of putting a target on his back.
Today, enforcement focuses on street sales of stolen goods and vendor extortion around the 16th and 24th Street BART plazas. Technically, permits for packaged food sales aren’t being enforced, but many vendors say they still feel the heat.
So this year, after 21 years on the sidewalk, Olguín made a change.
In May, he opened his first storefront: What’s Up, Coco, a compact 275-square-foot space located directly across the street from his usual corner, at 2669 Mission Street. He didn’t want to lose his regulars.
The shop sits inside the historic Grand Theatre building, once home to Bernie Bee’s, an Italian ice stand that briefly opened between late 2021 and early 2022. Since then, the space, like so many along Mission Street, had sat empty, as property owners refused to lower the rent. This one has gone up by $300 in the last six years.
Olguín and his wife saved for years to open the shop. They invested $20,000 into refrigeration, supplies, and setup. Now, they pay $2,800 a month in rent, which Olguín hopes to cover with just a few days of steady sales.
He’s promised not to raise prices: $7 for sliced coconut, $5 for tall fruit cups, $15 for 9–10 peeled mangoes. Sandwiches are coming soon.
Despite four decades in the U.S., Olguín still wears his Sinaloan roots on his sleeve: cowboy shirts, denim jeans and all. He and his girlfriend, now his wife, arrived in San Francisco at 18. Together, they built a life here, raised four kids, and weathered every storm.
He still hasn’t returned to Pueblos Unidos, his hometown, but he calls it “the capital of the world” like it’s never left him.
Through it all — the lost cart, the long days, the high rent — Olguín remains, as ever, an optimist.
“El sol brilla para todos,” he says with a smile.
The sun shines for everyone.
