I'd studied business management back in New Zealand but arrived in London at 22 – half my life ago – without a clue what to do. I landed a job as a dishwasher at the French House Dining Room in Soho and loved it. I worked out a system – effective rinsing, adequate soaking, methodical stacking – and, being so enthusiastic, I got involved prepping fish, making ice-cream, all sorts.

[Owners] Margot and Fergus Henderson offered to train me as a chef. And within six months, they went abroad for six weeks and left me to my own devices. I was shitting myself. But Fergus's parents came into the restaurant and reported back that they enjoyed the tripe and onions – which reminds me of the smell of elephant's cage. I realised I could cook something I don't even like.

At the Modern Pantry, we do 300 covers for Sunday brunch, but I remember the 26 at the French House as being incredibly demanding. One regret I had for years was never going on a proper French cookery course and learning the words for things. I don't speak French at all. I felt inadequate, even fraudulent, for many years. I don't care now, but God, what a waste of energy.

I regret lifestyle choices I made early on. I wish I'd kept healthier, that I hadn't smoked all those frigging rollies. My social life was with other chefs and I did too much burning the candle at both ends. We even drank wine while we were working. It was fun, but a miracle that we didn't chop fingers off.

Peter Gordon too was welcoming, nurturing, spirited and generous. When I was 31, he asked me to become his business partner in the Providores in Marylebone High Street. It felt very different in that I was involved in cooking and business. There were four business partners and my then husband was one. We could share cabs to and from work, which was handy. But we both had the same subjects to talk about the whole time and didn't necessarily agree. That's not really why we ended up parting ways – but I wouldn't do it again. When we separated, it felt right for me to step away from the Providores.

Now there's just me as boss, delegating responsibilities. I'd have to say the hours are tougher after you reach 40. It's feeling physically knackered, such as in the knees from years of standing up day after day. I have arthritis. And varicose veins. So this would be my great tip to all budding chefs, male and female: wear compression tights. They'll make a massive difference to your life.

Recently, I haven't been in the kitchen so much, which has given me a different perspective. I'm on part-time maternity leave, with a nine-month-old daughter. I love feeding her because she gets really excited and rocks back and forth. It's like she's delirious. And cooking for her will be interesting. Boiling, say, a piece of broccoli so it's the perfect consistency when mashed.

I have more confidence in my 40s. I still freak out when I have to do a cooking demo but I know now I'll get through it and if people don't laugh at my jokes it doesn't mean I'm a waste of space. Humour has become more important to me. Happiness is being on top of everything, having a smooth service, sending out beautiful food to happy guests and getting out by midnight. I have a second restaurant coming soon, it's 99% certain, assuming we get the bloody lease signed. Another business, another kitchen: great, fantastic. I've always been happiest when I've been able to be creative. But meanwhile I'm wanting a life outside work, with my loved ones. We'll see.