Rick Stein is, surprisingly, a man rather surrounded by rumours. After a much publicised affair some years ago, and a too many newspaper headlines litter with fish puns, he has kept a relatively low profile with the press, preferring instead to let his TV appearances and his food do the talking for him. On TV he is affable, enthusing about simple pleasures and simple cooking; but there are rumours of a personality change when he enters the kitchen and hints of a temper you’d imagine more fitting for Gordon Ramsay’s more ‘showbiz’ TV cooking.

Luckily, however, I don’t meet him in the kitchen, but in the rather busy Union bar. He happily signs autographs, sits down with a pint, and graciously accepts my compliments on his recipe for shark vindaloo. Obviously, Rick Stein is all about food – in his TV programs he wants food to ‘be the star’, not him. ‘People want to know about how other people cook, it gives you a reason to be in a country. I don’t have to go visit Cathedrals or talk about art, I’m there because of the food… and if I chose to do anything on top of that, like make a political comment, it just falls naturally alongside the cooking.’

Cooking is not all there is to Rick Stein, though. What I hadn’t realised, and what he tells me, is that he’d been a student at Oxford almost forty years ago, and ‘that nothing had changed’, a sentiment that most returning alumni seem to share. He came after a series of gap years, at the age of twenty three; much older than his fellow students, and having travelled Europe extensively, it seems that the academic life was not for him. Unlike his brother, who is now a researcher, Stein left Oxford with a ‘gentlemen’s third’ in English Literature, a fact that he doesn’t seem to mind, because he (clearly) filled his time here with others things, including editing .

‘I got involved in it in the first placed just as a way of meeting people; I met some of my best friends through Cherwell. It’s like joining the union, I suppose. It was just hilarious… We were always trying to have a go at the Oxford Union, just because it’s so full of people with very clear career agendas. We’d lay into them, no worries. It’s a chance to flex your muscles, to decide whether you’re going to be anti-establishment or whatever you want to be. Oxford is the place where you can make mistakes, and bounce back.’

The restaurant industry, however, is a much less forgiving place. Or, at least it is nowadays: one in two new restaurants shut within a year of their opening. For Stein, though, when he left University, the prospect of opening a restaurant was as terrifying- or so he says, hindsight is rather kind when you’re looking back on something that was such a success.

‘It was in the mid-seventies, so the restaurant scene was much less developed than it is today. Opening a restaurant anywhere is a bit of a leap of faith- but in some ways that worked in our favour, because you didn’t need everything working, you didn’t have to put in a lot of capital to open a restaurant’ The difference is that now, everything is ‘so expensive’ and that restaurants that do great food still don’t succeed, it’s rather a lottery. Back in the day, however, Stein says you could let the food do the talking, and that was that. ‘It was more that I’d travelled quite a lot, and realised that you could eat so much better in France and Italy than in England, and I knew that I could do the same sort of thing here. We succeeded on the back of a growth of general knowledge and enthusiasm for good food.’

And now, despite the fact that industry seems to have evolved out of all recognition, Rick Stein doesn’t need to worry about that, he now owns four restaurants. There was, however, a lot of controversy when he began opening restaurants in Cornwall, particularly in Padstow. Stein has family roots there, so it seemed to make sense to open a restaurant, but it was met with some local animosity- the ‘Cornish Army’ has he called them- and headlines declaring that he was pushing prices up and locals out. When I raise this point, I see a flash of the businessman that has got Stein where he is today – but he saves his rather more pragmatic words for the press, who he felt attempted to stir up more trouble than there ever was. ‘All publicity is good publicity. Whether they’re praising the place or saying the locals cant stand it, all you’re doing is keeping yourself on the map. You take it with a pinch of salt. They use us, and we use them.’ It might not be the roaring response that I had wanted, but it is certainly fair.

How then, he is still going? With …. TV programs, including one sans food about John Betjeman, it doesn’t look like he’ll ever sit back and start counting his gold. There’s a simple enough reason for it though. ‘I don’t like being bored. I think the idea of retiring and going on lots of trips with no motives seems silly. I’d sooner go travelling and be paid for it, and I will as long as someone is willing to do that.’ And the work load, it seems, if considerably eased by the fact that he can choose to work, he doesn’t have to. ‘More and more the restaurants are being run by other people, but I just love the whole industry and the camaraderie of it. I wouldn’t want to give it up, as long I have some role to play in it.’

When he says ‘I don’t have hobbies, my life is my work. I’m not stressed’ it doesn’t sound like a cliché (although, it looks more like one in print…) but it is followed by the genuine admission of ‘I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.’ I’m inclined to believe him, and to think that I did have to bring up tabloid-esque rumours to get him to tell me something interesting- I didn’t even have to weever fish pun in for my own entertainment.

Clothes shopping in provincial China promises a humiliation all of its own for the Western visitor. I am, as discreetly as is possible under the hawk-like observation of three waif-like sales assistants, sizing up a top and wondering whether it’s worth trying to squeeze into it. Will that go across my shoulders? Are the sleeves going to reach my wrists? I decide to go for it, take the top from the rail and turn decisively towards the changing rooms. One of the sales assistants is by my side in an instant. “Tai xiao le”, too small, she says frankly, pointing at the top and looking at me. She firmly takes it from my hand and replaces it on the shelf, then gestures towards a rail of baggy T-shirts as if to say “now those might fit you!”

She hadn’t meant to embarrass me, of course: it was a typical example of Sichuanese matterof-factness. And besides, she was right. Finding clothes for Western women over a size eight is no easy feat out of the big cities and provincial capitals. Sichuan, which reputedly boasts China’s most beautiful women, is particularly tough; clothes are cut for dainty figures about two thirds my height.

But even where the sizing problem can be resolved, there’s a further consideration: provincial fashion. The look of the young woman in her twenties is decidedly girly. Ornaments and embellishments are in: it is not uncommon to discover a promising-looking summer dress, only to find the front adorned with an assortment of frills, buttons and bows. These are teamed, inexplicably, with (visible) flesh-coloured ankle socks and high-heeled strappy shoes or sandals. The high-heel is ubiquitous, and worn even in the most impractical of situations. I have seen Chinese women climb mountains in heels, undertake punishing hikes, and one on particularly memorable occasion, wield a pneumatic drill. Complete the picture with a parasol – essential protection from the danger of tanning – and the final effect is all a bit Little Bo Peep. Not really me.

For the young and hip, there are trends influenced by Japanese and Korean youth culture. The coolest kids in my English classes proudly sported rip-off Bathing Ape T-shirts and caps, NBA basketball shirts or extremely low-crotched checked trousers with braces attached. The really bold might don the gothic-lolita “harajuku” look, but that tends to raise eyebrows in a – by Chinese standards – small conservative town, so is reserved for special occasions: the school singing competition, for example. Chinese grandmas have their equivalent of Marks & Spencer’s elasticated trousers and cardis – the short-sleeved printed blouse. These garish creations are sold in innumerable shops all over the country, and are to be spotted on what must be about three quarters of women ‘of a certain age’. Their husbands, too, have a uniform: the short-sleeved polo shirt, usually viscose, with the all-important breast pocket for cigarettes. This is worn invariably with suit trousers – a sartorial choice as immutable as the high heels of the twenty-something.

Though it may not all be to my taste, there’s no denying that there’s style at stake here. True, none of this would get far in the catwalks and boutiques of Paris, Milan and New York, but there’s an impressive attention to appearance nonetheless. Next to my Chinese peers, neatly dressed in their pop socks, sandals and floral prints, I didn’t feel I could get away with the slouchy hoodie and leggings student combo on a trip to the supermarket. And when your bus driver and the woman sweeping the street wear elbow-length white gloves to work, you’ve got to step up.

I may not have left Sichuan with a bigger wardrobe, or a penchant for pop socks as a fashion statement, but something of the style of provincial China has stuck with me. You could say I grew to appreciate it. And until I see a woman drilling a concrete road in heels, I refuse to believe her commitment to the cause. Move over, Anna Wintour, this century’s fashionistas rise in the East.

A simple handshake between businessmen. A courteous bow in Japan. Rub your nose affectionately with one another among Inuits. Press your forehead to a fellow Maori’s. Put your palms together in a prayer-like gesture and bow your head in Thailand. And smile. Always equip yourself with a smile.

Why then, if the rest of the world always knows exactly what to do when they greet people do the English flounder and grimace when they meet someone new and continue to do so until one of the new acquaintances ventures to add the other as a friend on Facebook and they feel this newfound intimacy warrants a hug or a kiss?

Man on man encounters are usually tolerated without any exterior display of awkwardness. They thrust their heads back, remind themselves they need to firmly establish their territory by the mere touch of their fingertips, stare into the very depths of the other person’s eyeballs and extend their palms. They squeeze tight enough to let their opponent know they are capable of seriously injuring them should the need arise, while trying to inject an inkling of trust into the exchange. The perfect image of common courtesy.

But what then, when a man meets a woman for the first time? Shake her hand? Too formal. A kiss on the cheek? Depends how fit she is, most will say. Too asymmetrical, they might conclude. A kiss on each cheek? Too forthcoming, too French. And there is always the mortifying possibility of unexpected midflight lip-on-lip as you go from left to right, or right to left, or left to left and back. Hug her? Too pally. A derivation of the caveman territory demonstration gesture, she might think. A cowardly wave? Safe, I suppose. But do you opt for the regal side-to-side movement or the tickle motion? The former I hope. Whip out the ‘tickle’ and you’ve already smashed any chances you might have had to smithereens.

You would have thought that if men can follow a more or less seamless routine, without their heads exploding with the conflicting thoughts of the moral implications of their chosen greeting, that women would be able to do the same. They should be able to stare each other down and establish their territory with a mere gesture, within three seconds of catching sight of their opponent. How ironic that the more organised and practical sex should choose not to imitate the handshake routine, the failsafe method successfully employed by men. A kiss on each cheek then? Women always know that the volume of the mwah sound on each side is always indirectly proportional to the sincerity of your greeting, but not making one at all is too sexual. Solution? Revert to Plan B: Look like a tit, execute the cowardly wave.

With all this neurotic panic racing round our heads, you would have thought we could just pick one and execute it with the confidence of a prehistorically established greeting. Instead, we often feel the need just to stand there with our hands firmly clasped to our sides to avoid the risk of seeming too forward, too pushy, too camp. It’s as awkward as the first date. Please make the first move, your mind is screaming, as you make your excuses to leave. Perhaps we should just tell our dates our desired goodbye procedure. It would save romantic awkwardness in the long run.

And if we Brits can’t get it right, how on earth do we cope when we go abroad? Not too well, judging by the slowly articulated ‘Plate of chips’ orders you hear barked out in warmer climes. The kind of phrase that makes you want to feign a French or even German accent for the rest of your holiday. But if that at least gets the message across without the need to translate into any unfamiliar foreign tongue, the silent world of transnational greetings brings things to a whole new level.

As a rather dippy and deeply Westernised Egyptian friend explained to me once, ‘In Egypt, don’t touch a member of the opposite sex unless he is your father or brother, and even then, tread with caution.’ Having met a rather dashing Egyptian boy on the Egyptian beach (think bikinis, jet skis, hedonism) she opted for the kiss on each cheek when they went to say goodbye. Her rather conventional family, spying this, and already outraged that she was talking to a male stranger, ignored her for the rest of the week. She spent the remainder of her holiday trying in vain to explain the role of ‘the French’ in England. And her partner in crime disappeared off into the ether.

Such a simple notion, so many dilemmas. For the first time in my life, I find myself praising the consequences of globalisation. ‘Allô?’ asks the Frenchman when he picks up the phone. ‘Hello Kaa’, purrs the Thai woman as she picks up her Samsung. ‘Haelo!’ enthuse the Bengalis as their polyphonic ring tones chime out into Calcutta’s hectic cacophony. At least we can all telephonically greet someone with relative ease, without having to worry about the appropriate ratio of eye contact to tactility and what not.

But we still haven’t tackled the face to face. Despite almost 2000 years of civilisation, we still haven’t really come up with a solution. Surely someone will soon recognise it as an important priority and write a handbook which we can refer to every time we set out to network. But by then we’ll probably all have telephones for faces anyway.