You don’t so much step into Giada as drift toward it, led by the scent of truffle rising from the oven at the front of the house. Even before the host smiles you through the door, the perfume of blistering dough and earthy mushrooms hangs in the air like a promise.

Inside, elegance asserts itself immediately. The restaurant’s name is inlaid in marble at the threshold, a quiet but telling flourish. Beyond it, the room unfolds in layers of stone: a bar dressed in deep green marble, softened by swirls of lilac and rose, with walnut lending warmth. Hand-laid mosaics shimmer like something salvaged from a Roman villa, while lightweight rattan chairs keep the mood from tipping into formality. The space is both theatrical and calm, its design as carefully balanced as the menu.
Yet as dazzling as the room is, we prefer eating al fresco, taking in the warmth of a September afternoon. Aperol spritzes sparkle in the sunlight, conversations ripple down Mokotowska, and my partner, between bites, keeps glancing over a shoulder—this is, after all, a street where a celebrity sighting feels almost as natural as ordering a second bottle of wine.

The prosciutto pizza is the house’s quiet miracle. Delicate folds of ham rest on a crust that is equal parts chew and crunch, the canvas punctuated by tiny sparks of fig jam. Sweetness, salt, and heat find harmony here—an angel’s recipe if ever there was one. Another evening it might be the truffle pizza, its aroma so spellbinding that strangers pause mid-step as they pass the restaurant’s façade.

Then comes the pasta. Handmade daily, it arrives with the kind of confidence only hours of slow cooking allow. The bolognese is an orchestra of pork and beef simmered into submission, draped over fresh noodles and crowned with stracciatella so lush it borders on decadent. It is the sort of dish that silences a table mid-conversation, and quite possibly the best bolognese you’ll taste outside Emilia-Romagna.

Giada takes its name from both jade stone and an Italian woman’s name, and that duality feels fitting. It is at once polished and personal, refined yet approachable. On Mokotowska, it has swiftly become a stage where Warsaw’s appetite and Italy’s spirit meet in perfect rhythm.