Asher on Aspen: Aspen meets the Italian Alps

The moment you walk through the doors of Aosta Ristorante, Aspen vanishes. Suddenly you’re somewhere deep in the Italian Alps — but with Aspen polish. Warm wood walls, sturdy tables, fur-draped chairs, and glowing antler chandeliers set the scene. The air smells of garlic, butter, and woodsmoke, hinting at pasta spun in cheese wheels and pizzas charred just right in the oven. It’s rustic, yes — but curated, perfected. Like Hemingway’s hunting lodge, if he’d actually known how to decorate.

The four of us claimed a table: my sister Erin and her husband Kevan, visiting from Iowa, plus Jett, the ever-reliable partner-in-crime. The kids sat this one out, and we leaned into the rare luxury of an adults-only evening.

Packed with flavors from Aosta, that rugged slice of northern Italy, the menu showcases Fontina cheese, wild-boar ragú, mountain herbs, and pastas that taste like they were transported straight from the Alps. We dove in recklessly.

Aosta Ristorante had been whispering its name through Aspen for months — an alpine temple to Italian indulgence, opened this year by the CP Restaurant Group. People muttered about it like some underground party. Word was, this wasn’t your cookie-cutter trattoria — it was a mountain fever dream, built on bold flavors, alpine craftsmanship, and the holy doctrine of pasta worship.

The smell hit first: butter, garlic, lemon zest colliding in the air, laced with the funk of cheese that had lived a full, complicated life. My pulse quickened.

We launched into the appetizers like wolves. Erin devoured the Sardine in Scatola — salt, fat, and lemon balanced perfectly on a crisp baguette. “Amazing,” she muttered, wide-eyed, as if she’d just seen God in a tin can. Jett, gesturing with his fork, declared the Burrata “the best in his life.” I believed him — smooth mozzarella, sweet roasted tomatoes, bright basil pesto, and just the right touch of balsamic.

Then came the moment every pasta fanatic waits for: the Cacio e Pepe ritual. A wheel of Parmigiano was wheeled to our table like some holy relic. The waiter scooped steaming pasta into it, cracked black pepper over the top, and tossed it until the cheese melted and clung to every strand. Watching it was sensational. Eating it was criminal. Creamy, peppery, borderline dangerous — the kind of dish that makes you forget your own name.

From there, the parade didn’t stop. The Margherita pizza came first, a simple triumph of blistered crust, milky mozzarella, and basil leaves glowing green like stained glass under candlelight. The Bianca pizza was its wilder cousin — artichoke, lemon, mushrooms, and stracciatella tangling together in a citrusy, earthy high note.

Kevan went for the classic linguine: simple and satisfying. The pasta was bright with lemon, topped with crunchy breadcrumbs, and threaded through with sweet, delicate crab. Erin went for the Garganelli alla vodka, with shrimp in a creamy tomato sauce that coated every twist of the pasta. The two dishes balanced each other perfectly — one bright and light, the other rich and creamy — each delicious in its own way.

By the time dessert arrived, we were glassy-eyed, tipsy from cocktails I couldn’t name but remembered in flashes of bitters, citrus, and smooth gin. Four desserts landed at once, a sugary apocalypse. Rich chocolate, delicate custards, and fruit that gleamed like gems in syrup. I lost track of which was which. Every bite was rich, playful, and completely satisfying — a reminder that dessert was meant to be enjoyed without restraint.

I leaned back, glass in hand, and let the warm glow of the antlers and candles wash over me. Aosta isn’t just a restaurant — it’s an experience that sweeps you across continents, leaving you a little dazzled, a little changed. The Alpine-like air outside barely registered; I was full — in every way that matters: pasta, wine, laughter, memory.

Aosta Ristorante: a place to savor, to lose yourself completely, and to appreciate that someone finally brought the Italian Alps to Aspen.