‘Anyway, he did remember, or at least he said he did.’

Pop singer Tony Bennett came through the Valley last week to meet his public.

Bennett, who recently recorded his 89th album for Columbia Records, agreed to do a 90-minute appearance at an outlet of a major record store on his way to Irvine, where he was performing on the Fourth of July.

The event was arranged by George Chronis, an executive at Music Plus. He said he scored the ever-popular vocalist through a secretary who knew someone who knew Bennett’s manager.

Although national recording artists usually want to make their appearances in Hollywood, Columbia requested either West Los Angeles or Studio City, hoping to reach the natural base of Bennett’s easy-listening progressive sound, Chronis said.

Studio City prevailed.

“We have the largest celebrity clientele,” store manager Richard Miller explained. “Just about all the TV, movie and music industry people live near here.”

Miller prepared the store by hanging up dozens of posters of Bennett’s new album, “The Art of Excellence.” They show a smiling, but slightly sultry, Bennett in a leather jacket.

Anything but sultry in person, Bennett arrived in a limousine at 4:30 Wednesday afternoon. He looked trim, handsome and relaxed in sporty white pants and white sailing jacket over a red knit shirt. With him were his teen-age daughters, Joanna and Antonia.

A line was already waiting in the muggy heat outside the store in the shopping center at Ventura and Laurel Canyon boulevards.

Sitting at a small table, Bennett shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and signed autographs in silver glitter ink. His constant smile betrayed no irritation.

It was a casual and low-key crowd, consisting of all ages. In fashion it tended toward shorts and sun dresses, though several people appeared to have come straight from work.

Many picked up albums, tapes or compact discs in a rack beside the line to present for autographing. Others brought items from home.

After an hour, the line wasn’t getting any shorter.

“George, how many items?” the doorkeeper called out to Chronis. “A guy brought his whole set of albums.”

Chronis held up two fingers. But Bennett wasn’t strict with the rules.

When David Wolf, an 18-year-old from Calabasas, asked him to sign the front and back of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” he did. Then Wolf asked if he could sit next to Bennett for a photo. Joanna left her chair for a moment while Wolf’s friend, Steve Ansell, snapped a couple of shots of the youth beside her father.

Farther back in line, David Wagaman, a quiet man in a dark pinstripe suit, volunteered that, although he is now a restaurant supply salesman, he once directed Bennett in a revue called “The Way We Were.” He said he just wanted to say, “Hi.”

Ahead of him, Anaheim school teacher Adella Ravitch carried a white box.

“It’s a little tin of Italian cookies,” she said with a blush. “I bake them.”

When her turn came, Bennett took the box and put it down on the table.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks so much.”

She studied him intently for a few seconds and then gave way to Wagaman.

“Do you remember Ft. Meyer?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bennett said noncommittally.

“The Way We Were?” Wagaman prodded.

“Yes.”

“I was the director.”

“Yes,” Bennett said with only a bit more recognition.

“Here’s something for you to listen to,” Wagaman said, pulling a cassette tape from his pocket.

Bennett put it down next to two or three others.

“A friend wrote those tunes and hopes he’ll use them,” Wagaman explained later. He paused.

“Anyway, he did remember, or at least he said he did.”

Meanwhile, Ravitch drifted back into the record racks, keeping a constant eye on Bennett. She began to chat with Abe Eltorai Jr. of Huntington Beach, who told her he is the biggest Tony Bennett fan in the world under the age of 35.

He had brought his favorite album, “Baby Dream Your Dream.”

“I got his whole family to autograph this,” he said. “His two daughters and his son.”

Ravitch and Eltorai lingered in the parking lot and exchanged telephone numbers before leaving.

Meanwhile, a middle-aged man carrying a leather brief case was shaking Bennett’s hand. A flyer that he passed out identified him as vocalist, drummer, actor Forrest Draper. But he told Bennett that he was getting out of the business.

“I build houses now and have one or two products,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” Bennett replied.

“This just came out on the market,” Draper said. From the briefcase he pulled two small red packages of something called LinTape and tossed them on the table.

Bennett put them beside the tapes and turned his eyes to the next person in line.

After two hours, the line receded into the store and Chronis began to turn away stragglers.

But a large man with gray, crew-cut hair and wearing a brown jump suit pushed his way in.

“I’m a personal friend of his,” he said.

Bennett looked up from his last autograph and saw the man.

“Hey,” he said. He stood up sharply and, leaning over the table, flung his arms around the man in a firm embrace.

He really was a friend.