Everybody knows about the "Velvet Fog," that amazing voice (I always thought of it as a muted trombone) that was a pop legend as well as a sophisticated jazz instrument. (Mel is one of the few males who could hold his own with Ella Fitzgerald when it came to scatting.) And maybe you also remember that Mel co-wrote that perennial Yuletide chestnut, "The Christmas Song" (aka "Chestnuts Roasting On an Open Fire"). And perhaps you're even aware that Mr. Torme was the accomplished author of several books about music, including biographical accounts of Judy Garland and drummer Buddy Rich.

But when I heard that Mel Torme had died, I immediately thought of that Friday night at Hef's house. I was there, this once, as the guest of Bob Rosen, the head of the UCLA Film and Television Archive and a former colleague of mine in the Los Angeles Film Critics' Association. The Archive had just restored and presented an early (1945) version of Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep, which Warner Bros. had patriotically delivered to Our Boys in the Armed Forces, but then withheld from public release for some significant re-editing and re-shooting to beef up the on-screen relationship between Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.  Those afterthought scenes are now among the most memorable and quotable in the picture ("It all depends on who's in the saddle"). Hawks and the studio also cut out the talky scene where the characters actually explain the plot, which is why nobody ever could figure out what happened once the movie was released to the general public in 1946.

Bob cracked that it may have been the only case in cinematic history where UCLA "restored" a director's first cut of a movie and it was actually worse than the one the studio released. But it's a fascinating artifact, and the Archive had just screened it to sellout crowds, so it was a natural for Friday night at Hef's house. And besides, Hef himself had bankrolled the restoration when, Bob said, nobody else would.

When we walked out back I had one of those moments of perfect happiness that occur so rarely in one's life. There, standing by the Grotto, was Mel Torme chatting with Jerry Vale. I have no recollection of what they were chatting about, but it hardly matters: There they were. Together. I've interviewed hundreds of ultra-mega-famous filmmakers and movie stars -- but I hadn't had such an epiphanic celebrity encounter since I ran into Tom Poston coming out of the men's room in the bar at Chasen's, a few years before that Old Hollywood institution closed down for good. (A New York critic friend of mine tells me the only time she ever went to Chasen's she met both Cary Grant and Barbara Stanwyck -- but, I'm sorry, that would be way more than I could handle and I'd just have to drop to my knees and start paying obeisance or something equally uncool and embarrassing.)

Anyway: "I'm Jerry Vale," said Jerry Vale, extending his hand. (Actually, I'd met Jerry briefly once before, when I was interviewing Danny Aiello at a cafe in Beverly Hills. Jerry came over and told us all about his latest operation. It sounded painful, but he seemed to be doing good.) "Hi. Mel Torme. Pleasure to meet you," said Mel Torme. OK, so that's about all I remember from that conversation.

My delirious happiness aside, there was a relaxed and pleasantly ritualistic air to this Friday night affair (Sundays are reserved for new releases and Wednesdays are "special request" occasions), the warm feeling of friends gathering to do something they love, and doing it once again exactly the same way they have done it so many times before. Bob told me about one time when the early part of the evening was disrupted by the O.J. Simpson slow-speed Bronco chase (on a Friday night, you may recall), and as the car rolled down the 405 and got off in Brentwood, some people began to speculate (with a mixture of fretfulness and exhilaration) that perhaps O.J. and Al Cowlings were heading for Hef's. But Hef kept things on track, and when it was movie time, he announced that those who wanted could stay in the kitchen and watch TV, but the rest of them were going to watch a movie.

So this is how it goes: At some point after dinner, Hef (clad in black silk pajamas and smoking jacket) declares that it's "showtime," and the group drifts into the screening room. It's nothing fancy -- a comfortable couch in front (where Hef sits), pillows on the floor (you can't help but let your imagination run wild), and a pair of 35 mm projectors in the back of the room. During the week, Hef researches and composes an informative introduction to that week's movie, which he writes out in pencil on a yellow legal pad. Hef sits on the arm of the couch, puts on his reading glasses, and begins to speak rather formally: "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's film is Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep, made in 1945 and starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall..."

He reads the whole thing, word for word, and he really does his homework, too. On this occasion, he quoted from telegrams sent by Jack Warner, and briefly related the whole history of the picture -- particularly how the studio felt they'd invested so much building up Bacall in To Have and Have Not that they needed to cement her stardom with her next movie, and The Big Sleep just wasn't strong enough. Yet.

"Elisha Cook, Jr.," Torme would exclaim, with a mixture of breathy delight and wistfulness. (OK, that's a pretty easy one, but he also remembered Peggy Knudsen.) As if announcing their arrival at a ball, Mel would pronounce the performers' names the way you might say aloud the name of an old friend who you hadn't thought of in 20 years -- rolling it over your tongue with mild astonishment and fond recognition, as if to say: "Well, I'll be." At first it was a bit disconcerting to hear the Velvet Fog piercing the darkness with these informative exclamations. But after a while, it got to be really fun. Sometimes he'd even throw in a quick detail or two about somebody's career.

After the movie, we went into a small dining room on the other side of the foyer for dessert and coffee. Kimberly had already excused herself, and we could hear a baby crying upstairs somewhere. Not long afterwards, Our Charming Host made his exit, bounding up the stairway as if he were Douglas Fairbanks (he's certainly as suave) and blowing a everybody a good-night kiss from the top before turning and disappearing.