Alexander Sikorsky

Alexander Sikorsky quotes Churchill’s “ambitions, ambitions, ambitions” mantra but admits his defining trait is simpler. He grew up in “a magical cocoon of love” in a rural village near Odessa, where his parents made homemade Isabella wine. Nothing in that childhood suggested he would one day build Russia’s most internationally acclaimed winery—least of all to him.

Winemaking is the kind of business that continues working after the team changes. The winery we built won't disappear after I stop running it.

The Cocoon of Love #

The Ukrainian childhood shaped everything that followed, even when Alexander didn’t recognize the connection. His parents’ homemade Isabella wine was peasant production—hardly the terroir-driven complexity he would later pursue. But it established wine as a presence in domestic life, something made rather than merely consumed, a craft with seasonal rhythms that required attention and patience.

The “magical cocoon” Alexander describes wasn’t about wine specifically. It was about family—the security that comes from knowing you are unconditionally supported, the confidence that follows from being loved without conditions. Decades later, when he was investing family money in a winery that generated polite rejections from international critics, that psychological foundation would prove more valuable than any wine credential.

The Construction Magnate #

Before wine, there was concrete. In 1996, Alexander founded Vybor Group in Novorossiysk and became known as the “father of premium construction” in the port city. The company specialized in paving tiles and construction materials, building a reputation for engineering precision that would later prove unexpectedly transferable.

The Black Sea port city offered opportunity for someone with Alexander’s combination of ambition and technical capability. Post-Soviet Russia needed infrastructure, and Novorossiysk—one of the country’s largest ports—was growing rapidly. Vybor Group established itself as the quality option, the choice for clients who cared about getting things right rather than merely getting things done.

The construction business taught him how to manage complexity: coordinating materials, labor, and schedules across multiple projects while maintaining quality standards. It also taught him that problems were opportunities in disguise—that the constraints others saw as obstacles could become competitive advantages for those with the vision to engineer solutions.

These lessons would prove essential when he entered an industry he didn’t understand.

The Wine Awakening #

Wine entered his consciousness in 2003 when he met Frank Dusener and tasted Chateau Le Grand Vostock wines. Dusener, a German who had helped establish one of Russia’s pioneering quality wineries, embodied the possibility that fine wine could be made in Russia—an idea that contradicted everything the international wine establishment believed.

Something stirred in Alexander that wouldn’t quiet down. He began paying attention to wine in ways he hadn’t before, noticing differences, developing preferences, understanding that the liquid in his glass had stories behind it. Seven years passed, but the curiosity didn’t fade.

In 2010, he purchased 45 hectares in Semigorye valley with 8.8 hectares of existing vines—not to make wine, but because the land seemed like a good investment. The Semigorye valley’s potential was already recognized by local viticulturists, and property with established vines represented value that could appreciate or be sold.

“Just 10 years ago I was thinking about what to do with this piece of land,” Alexander later reflected. “I can’t say that I understood anything about wine then, although I loved it. What kind of pruning, what treatments, and in general, how does one actually make wine?”

The Reluctant Winemaker #

The first harvest in 2011 forced the question. Alexander wasn’t ready to handle it, so the previous landowner processed the grapes. It was a reasonable solution for someone who owned vines but didn’t yet understand viticulture—but it also meant surrendering control over a process he was increasingly interested in.

By February 2012, standing in a vineyard he hadn’t planned on tending, Alexander made a choice that would consume the next decade: he would make his own wine. The decision wasn’t rational in any conventional business sense. He had no winemaking experience, no viticulture credentials, and no distribution relationships. What he had was a vineyard, family money to invest, and a curiosity that had been building since that first taste with Frank Dusener.

He hired French winemaker Gaëlle Brullon despite knowing nothing about viticulture. The choice reflected both humility and strategy: if he couldn’t bring wine expertise himself, he would hire it. Brullon would bring French winemaking technique to Russian terroir, while Alexander would bring the engineering discipline that had built Vybor Group.

His first wine exhibition that September was culture shock. Construction fairs had concrete and serious people engaged in serious business—handshakes, specifications, contracts. Wine fairs had aromas and strangers handing him glasses and speaking in a vocabulary he didn’t share. The exhibitors seemed less businesslike, more theatrical. He found himself in a world with different rules.

The Wine Advocate awarded 89 points to his 2012 Riesling—respectable, but not breakthrough recognition. For a first vintage from a complete novice, 89 points was remarkable. For someone with ambitions to be taken seriously by international critics, it was a starting point, nothing more. It would take eight more years before the international wine establishment took Russian wines seriously.

The Question That Wouldn’t Go Away #

Wine Spectator told Alexander explicitly that they had “no resources” to evaluate Russian wines. He spent nearly a year corresponding with James Suckling before receiving any engagement. The message from the global wine establishment was clear: Russian wines weren’t worth their time.

The rejection pattern was consistent. Submit samples to international competitions; receive polite acknowledgment or silence. Write to prominent critics explaining the project; receive form responses. Enter regional tastings; watch as wines from established regions claimed the attention. The system wasn’t designed to discover quality from unexpected places—it was designed to confirm quality from expected places.

The doubt was unavoidable. A construction magnate with no wine credentials, making wine in a country the industry dismissed, investing family money in a project that generated polite rejections—was this ambition or delusion? The question had no objective answer. Only time and continued investment could provide resolution.

But Alexander had Churchill’s words and his parents’ homemade Isabella as psychological anchors. The “ambitions, ambitions, ambitions” mantra gave intellectual permission to persist. The memory of family wine, made without concern for critical scores, reminded him that wine was ultimately about human connection rather than industry validation.

He continued investing in quality: the gravity-flow winery, the French nursery stock, the terraced vineyard that only a builder would attempt. And he continued entering competitions, submitting samples, writing letters to critics who rarely wrote back. The strategy was simple: make excellent wine and wait for the world to notice.

The Builder’s Advantage #

What Alexander lacked in wine credentials, he possessed in engineering vision. When Semigorye’s steep slopes presented challenges that would have deterred a traditional vintner, he saw an opportunity.

Traditional viticulture treats steep slopes as problems to be managed—sites where erosion threatens vines, where equipment access is difficult, where labor costs multiply. Alexander’s construction background suggested a different approach: engineer the slope into something manageable.

Between 2014 and 2016, he built Russia’s first terraced vineyard—3.8 hectares of stone-walled terraces carved into the Caucasus foothills for the indigenous Krasnostop Zolotovsky grape. Each terrace was designed with construction precision: proper drainage, optimal sun exposure, accessible pathways for workers and equipment. The stone walls provided thermal mass that moderated temperature swings.

It was the kind of project that required construction expertise, not winemaking tradition. No Russian winemaker had attempted terracing at this scale because no Russian winemaker had the engineering capability to execute it. Alexander did. The terraced vineyard became physical proof that his unconventional background was an asset, not a liability.

The gravity-flow winery completed in 2018 continued this engineering-forward approach. Designed by French architect Mathieu Brullon—brother of winemaker Gaëlle—it houses 17 spherical concrete vessels that allow wine to move without pumps. The vessels, pioneered in France as an alternative to stainless steel and oak, enable gentler handling that preserves aromatic compounds.

The Family Project #

Alexander’s daughters became integral to the project. Yulia, educated in the UK, designed the winery interiors—including the circular glass-floored tasting room that overlooks the cellar. Elena contributed to marketing and brand development. Wife Lyudmila held ownership stakes through the corporate structure.

The family integration wasn’t merely practical; it was philosophical. He viewed winemaking as a generational project, something that would outlast his active involvement. Unlike construction, where projects complete and move on, a vineyard is a long-term commitment that improves with age. The family’s involvement ensured continuity beyond his tenure.

The SBID Awards recognized Yulia’s interior design as a finalist in 2019—external validation that the family collaboration was producing work of international quality. The father who built buildings had raised a daughter who could design their interiors. The synergy was more than coincidental.

Validation and Legacy #

The vindication came in 2021. World’s Best Vineyards ranked Sikory #20 globally—the first Russian winery ever in their Top 50. Forbes named the Pinot Noir Family Reserve 2018 as Wine of the Year. Robert Parker’s Wine Advocate had already awarded 90 points to the Riesling, making it Russia’s highest-rated.

Eight years of “no resources” and “they didn’t really love us” collapsed into recognition. The builder who never understood wine had somehow built a winery that international critics couldn’t ignore.

The recognition validated the strategy but didn’t change the philosophy. When the 2021 harvest brought catastrophic rains, Alexander decided not to release Family Reserve red wines rather than compromise quality standards. Commercial pressure to generate revenue didn’t override long-term brand equity considerations. The decision was exactly what someone building for generations would make.

“What does winemaking mean to you now?” an interviewer asked. “Business? Passion? Or a legacy you’re preparing to pass to the next generation?”

“I’d like to answer: all of the above,” Alexander replied. “But first and foremost, it’s definitely, unequivocally, a passion!”

The 95-Point Dream #

That passion extends across generations. Alexander imagines a conversation with his great-grandson, decades from now, about tasting a 95-point Riesling from grapes he planted. The specificity of “95 points” is notable—not just “great wine” but a measurable target that the international establishment uses to signify excellence.

The ambition is both humble and audacious. Humble because 95 points requires external validation, an admission that he still cares what critics think. Audacious because he’s imagining wine from his vineyard being evaluated by standards that didn’t exist for Russian wines when he started.

The winery he built, he says, “won’t disappear after I stop running it.” It’s a statement about architecture—the gravity-flow system, the terraces, the infrastructure that will outlast any individual. But it’s also a statement about family—the daughters already integrated into operations, the succession planning that most family businesses neglect.

The Lesson #

Alexander’s transformation from construction magnate to acclaimed winemaker offers something beyond industry-specific insight. His story suggests that domain expertise transfers across fields in unexpected ways, that outsider perspectives can solve problems insiders accept as given, and that family support provides psychological foundation for risky ventures.

The “magical cocoon of love” that shaped his Ukrainian childhood proved essential to his Russian winemaking success—not because it taught him about wine, but because it taught him that unconditional support makes ambitious persistence possible. When Wine Spectator said they had “no resources” for Russian wines, Alexander had the internal resources to keep submitting anyway.

Churchill’s “ambitions, ambitions, ambitions” provided the philosophical framework. His parents’ homemade Isabella provided the emotional connection. His construction career provided the engineering capability. His family provided the succession plan. And his willingness to hire specialists for what he didn’t know—French winemakers, French architects—provided the expertise his ambition required.

It’s a long-term view that could only come from someone who spent a decade being told his project wasn’t worth evaluating—and kept building anyway.

Last updated: March 15, 2026