These days the gates are open and the trucks roll in around the clock because Toronto is a busy, hungry town. We want our avocados all year long, and we order them from California, Costa Rica, Arizona and Peru. Freshness is a moving target, time is money, whistle be damned.

At 4:30 a.m., Peter Adamo props an open box of pineapples in front of an eye-high pile of crates; he takes his pocket knife, splits a fat ripe piece of fruit, eats half, wipes his chin and leaves the rest exposed to tempt a customer.

Long before first light he and the other suppliers in the Terminal get ready for the buyers from the city supermarkets, the restaurants and the corner grocers, as well as the fruiterers and store owners from small towns for miles around.

Every wholesaler has a specialty. Peter's employer, North American Produce, is a good place for peppers, tomatoes, celery, broccoli, mini-carrots, pineapples, cantaloupe and oranges.

PHOTOGALLERY: FOOD TERMINAL

And something new today – scallions with bright red bulbs. In this era of celebrity chefs and pretty plates, red scallions ought to be a winner but Peter's a bit cautious – this is, after all, Toronto; we are not exactly adventurous at the table.

Wholesale produce is a cutthroat business, market-driven and time-sensitive. If something isn't selling, you've got to find a way to get rid of it before it goes off – which means dropping prices. "Your first loss is your best loss," says Peter. "Losing a couple of bucks a case is better than losing a whole shipment."

Do the wholesalers co-operate with each other- For example, if you run out of lemons, can you buy a pallet from the guy in the next stall- Peter smirks. "There was a time when, if a guy had something hot, he might share a few cases with his friends; not so much any more. It used to be dog eat dog; now, it's more like dog eat rat."

The Davidsons arrive while it's still dark: Howard, who owns North American, and his sons Larry and Steve. The boys have university degrees, but business at the Terminal is good right now, and a degree is something you can always fall back on.

There's a problem this morning.

Howard has learned that a truckload of oranges is running late, and won't arrive until most of the day's buyers have gone. He'll miss a day's sales. Where's the truck- On the highway somewhere. When's it due- Soon.

He is quietly furious. It's an important shipment, the first load of fruit from a new supplier; it signals a major shift for North American: "We bought oranges from Sunkist for 50 years. Then all of a sudden, they wanted us to take their mineolas, their blood oranges and grapefruit. All I want is oranges. That other stuff? You couldn't put a gun to my head." Meanwhile, buyers come and go, comparing prices, whistling, swearing merrily, making deals and cracking old jokes. "You want honeydews?" Peter asks a jobber.

A jobber is an intermediary – he buys from the wholesaler and sells to restaurants, hospitals and so on. The jobber says, "Honey, do. You get married, then it's 'Honey don't.''' The Korean corner store owners, the Italian grocers and the men and women from the stalls and stands in Chinatown – everybody laughs.

North American is one of the smaller wholesalers; they have one stall, and they sell maybe 18,000 boxes of fruit and vegetables a week; not a lot by Terminal standards. Most of the produce is stored on site, in huge temperature-controlled rooms. Storage is an art. Broccoli must be kept on ice. Apples give off ethylene gas, which is murder on lettuce, so you keep the lettuce somewhere else.

And connections are made any way you can make them.

Howard's pineapples? "I get these from a grower who got fed up with Del Monte. We met at a mini-carrots golf tournament in the States. My carrot guy introduced us."

Who knew there were such tournaments?

Finally, the missing truck rolls in.

Howard gives the driver a look. The driver says there was an accident on the highway, a real tie-up, four hours lost. Howard intensifies his look. This shipment is, effectively, a day late and the fruit is a day older than it ought to be – and any day when he's not selling is a lousy day. The driver is silent; it's a lousy excuse, but it's all he's got.

The truck holds 18 skids of oranges, there are 54 cases per skid, and these are "72s," which means there are 72 oranges per case – in total, 70,000 oranges are late.

There's another problem.

The skids are loaded sideways. The boxes have not been strapped. The load is tippy; it will be tricky to get a tow motor in and out without dumping fruit on the floor. A quick phone call to the broker will get a reduction in price, and a sharp lesson to the supplier - send the next shipment strapped or else.

There are three grades of orange: Export is the top of the line, usually sent overseas; the fruit is heavy for its size, with unblemished skins. Then there is Fancy, the top North American grade. Choice means the fruit is marked, and not as heavy – less juice.

Howard's load is Fancy, but the supplier has included a box of his best quality Export fruit. Each piece of fruit is bigger than my fist; their perfume is heady, their skins perfect. Larry and Steve gather round, and out come the fruit knives.

The sweetest oranges grow highest on the tree and furthest out on the limb; nothing but those oranges in this box. Father and sons slurp greedily, they close their eyes, they fairly swoon. And then they step back gingerly, they make way for the men with the tow motors, because there' s work to do, there's no point eating your profits, and you can't make any money when the fruit is in the truck.