Exile in Mayfair: millionaire Yevgeny Chichvarkin's new life in London

When Russian mobile phone tycoon Yevgeny Chichvarkin fled Moscow for London, he needed something to do. So he opened a wine shop for the super-rich
Yevgeny Chichvarkin
'I never understand people who are doing nothing, sitting at home, watching TV with their Tesco burgers' … Yevgeny Chichvarkin, Russian millionaire and owner of Hedonism Wine in Mayfair, London. Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian Linda Nylind/Guardian

Yevgeny Chichvarkin does not agree that spending £120,000 on a bottle of wine is an absurd extravagance. "Why?" the Russian owner of luxury Mayfair wine store Hedonism asks, genuinely puzzled. He can think of plenty of people who would think nothing of spending so much on the Penfolds Ampoule of 2004 Australian cabernet sauvignon.

"It's a present for somebody who has seen everything in this world. For some people who have been rich for a long, long time, it is quite hard to make an impression."

He shrugs off the suggestion that this is decadent. "I know families who spend more than £100m for a yacht," he says. From their perspective, the price is not noteworthy; besides, thrown into the price of the bottle is a promise that the wine maker will fly over from Australia to help the buyer open it with a special knife. In any case the shop stocks more expensive products – a bottle of 55-year-old Glenfiddich whisky, for example, at around £123,000.

Hedonism, which opened last year, is a landmark of how much London has changed in 20 years, with the arrival of a new class of international super-rich. Chichvarkin is one of their number. A Russian oligarch who co-founded Evroset, a chain of 5,000 mobile phone stores, he lost much of his fortune when he was obliged to flee Moscow in 2008, claiming he was forced out by demands from corrupt officials to pay bribes. He subsequently sold his business, and the Sunday Times rich list estimates his current wealth at £150m.

His new business caters for the whims of a global elite, protected by their wealth from the pinch of the downturn and Britain's austerity era, their existences almost wholly disconnected from the lives of London's other residents.

Chichvarkin is thoughtful, cheerful and very frustrated by the prevailing stereotypes of the flash and ostentatious new Russian emigres, but his views on his adopted home are revealing.

London now has more multimillionaire residents than any other city in the world, according to analysis from WealthInsight [pdf download] – there are now more than 4,000 individuals in the capital with more than £20m each. With property prices in central London soaring, estate agents recorded that more than half of prime central London properties sold last year for more than £2m were sold to foreign buyers. The growing rift between London's super-rich and the rest of the population has become increasingly stark, as property prices make parts of the capital inaccessible to the middle classes, and benefit cuts force the poorest to the outskirts of the city and beyond.

Chichvarkin chose to set up a wine business because he was frustrated by the slow service he encountered from wine merchants: when he wanted a particular vintage of wine delivered, he was told he would have to wait a week or two. In any case, he was looking for something to do.

For the first two years after he arrived, he did nothing, he says, but lament the fact that he had lost his business and been forced into exile. He is not keen to talk about the enforced departure, a decision he took rapidly after noticing he was being followed by the police, prompting him to head straight to the airport, hidden face-down in the back seat of a car, followed the next day by his wife, son and daughter. "I didn't want to move to the UK. I came here just for 11 or 12 days," he says.

Gradually he realised if he continued to do nothing he would "become crazy", and decided with casual chutzpah to set up what he believes will become the world's best wine shop.

Hedonism, just off Berkeley Square in Mayfair, is beautifully designed, and bustles with staff (more than customers) who speak between them Chinese, Russian, Portuguese, French, Spanish and Japanese, to cater for the international clientele. Chichvarkin is proud to stock a few good bottles of wine for £15, but mainly sells to wealthy bankers, lawyers and Mayfair residents who can be relaxed about spending £16,777.80 (prices are curiously precise, down to the last penny) on a bottle of 1882 Chateau d'Yquem (75cl).

Some of his customers are other rich Russian expatriates, but by no means the majority, he says. He is irritated by characterisation of the new Russian emigre as obsessed by money. "All my friends – I have some very wealthy Russian friends – don't focus on it at all. They sometimes spend big money on funny things, like yachts or helicopters, but we don't discuss it the whole day long. Of course some wealthy Russians present their wives and girlfriends with something but nobody says: look, I spent £12,000 on this ring," he says.

Vladimir Putin
'The thing we talk about most is when Putin will die, and when someone will kill him,' says Yevgeny Chichvarkin of his Russian friends in London. Photograph: Itar-Tass/Barcroft

"The thing we talk about most is when Putin will die, and when someone will kill him. Then about going back, and the future of Russia. The next thing is kids and education. Probably the next thing is private life. Money is nearly at the end of the list, but if someone has a problem with money – if it's frozen – then of course we talk about it."

He views his English acquaintances as more money-obsessed, and is struck by how penny-pinching they are – perhaps a reflection that they are more sensitive to the economic decline. They talk more about "how expensive everything is, and how to save more, and how the government grabs people's money," he says, laughing a wheezing laugh. "That's probably a one-sided view."

Chichvarkin does not fit the oligarch mould. His outfit doesn't radiate suave expense; his hair sticks out all over the place; he juggles three brightly coloured phones, which bark aggressively instead of ringing. He laughs after everything he says but has sudden bursts of sharp criticism for the country he has been forced to adopt.

He is aghast at our poor service culture, particularly at our approach to improving the country's mobile phone network, and dismayed that an attachment to preserving rural landscapes means that there is reluctance to install the base stations every seven to eight miles that are needed to ensure perfect 3G coverage. He bought his country house in Surrey from the television presenter Anthea Turner (when the business she ran with her ex-husband failed) and is astounded that the family managed without mobile coverage for the past decade. "If the telephone is not working, you can't call the doctor – but you have a nice view," he says.

He is irritated by the fact you can't get a plumber to come on a Saturday evening, even if you're prepared to pay extra. "They charge crazy money, very lazy people, they can't come Saturday evenings. Why? They are in service industries. Why? I think I will become very old and never understand that," he says.

Another thing he does not like about Britain are benefits claimants. He has seen little of London's poorer side, but is impatient with what he knows of it.

"It's not interesting; there's nothing there for me. I understand that there are some poor people living there, but most of them are just lazy. They're sitting on the government money, and just waiting for more, from our taxes," he says, and laughs, as if apologetic for his irritation.

"Our shop, with excise and VAT, created a lot of taxes. I think two big streets in east London are living on taxes we've paid. Their life is not interesting for me at all. I know that in big cities like Moscow, New York or London, if you are not lazy, if you have a brain in your head, you can make a career, you can earn money. If you're not very disabled, lazy and stupid, you can – London is a world capital. I never understand people who are doing nothing, sitting at home, watching TV with their Tesco burgers."

He thinks his frustration stems from his own childhood experience of deprivation, as Russia moved away from the Soviet system in the 80s. Although he was born to privileged parents (his mother was a government economist, and his father was an Aeroflot pilot) he grew up in a standard Soviet apartment block, far from the city centre. "I understand what an empty refrigerator looks like. I lived in Russia in 1989, where queues for chicken were four hours," he says. "No one who is not mad would want their kids to live in the Soviet Union."

Chichvarkin hopes his wine business will become profitable, but will disclose neither weekly revenues nor the value of the stock (he declines to confirm the figure of £10m published elsewhere; "I never disclose my investment. You can take a figure from your head. I keep it secret.") Although he founded it as a sanity-saving enterprise, it is not a hobby, he says. "I'm playing polo, that's a hobby." Although Chichvarkin is developing a palate, he outsources the bigger decisions to the former wine-buyer from Harrods; his own tastebuds were scorched by vodka consumption as a teenager, and his wine tastes tend towards the unsubtle, he says.

When he was searching for the right business to create, he visited dozens of shops. He thought about starting a fast-turnover, cheap, high-fashion chain, but dismissed it. "I went to Primark, and thought: 'When I become poor again, I will start to work for lower middle classes the way I did in Russia.'

"If I spend all my money, or lose it, I will work for lower middle classes, because it's the biggest class. If you want to be rich, work for the poorest people. Twelve years I worked for middle and lower middle class in Russia. I had 5,000 shops – I know how it works. But life is not only the money.

"If I was more ambitious or greedy, of course the best thing to do in the wine business is to buy Australian dehydrated wine, and add water here, and sell it at £2.99. People make money out of that – 90% of people really don't care, they just look at the price."

The customers at Hedonism do not look at the price, and that's what he likes about it – that people will walk in and contemplate whether to spend £98,000 on a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem.

"Sometimes people can spend their last money on a house, or education, or on a funeral. Some spend their last money on private school, and they don't eat properly, just put all the money for the school fees. Here it's not their last money," he says.

"They have made honest money. They have paid taxes, when they made big, big deals. They had a quite big amount of money. They are perfectionists in their life. They can spend their money, and do nice things for themselves."