The most festive fowl is the "Voyage Signature Chicken," a juicy galantine of skin-on, boneless breast wrapped around a mild-flavored, bouncy "truffle mousse," with a hint of chicken liver, bits of Cajun andouille, and slivers of canned black truffles to provide a ghost of truffle-flavor. The skin is limp but well-flavored with an herb rub. The accompaniments are white cheddar-dressed potato chunks and semi-crisp Asian vegetables sautéed in butter. These vegetables are a recurrent element, but unlike many restaurants, the kitchen changes the cooking method to complement the individual dishes.
An entrée billed as "Szechwan-Style Roasted Duck" has a half duck that's been rubbed with Chinese five-spice powder, roasted ahead, coated with a sweet glaze, and finished to order via grill or broiler. It's not bad, but it does taste reheated, with a shreddy texture to the meat, and it's not remotely Szechuanese, or any other kind of Chinese. It comes with spaghetti stir-fried in Chinese chili oil and stir-fried Asian veggies (the same medley as with the Signature Chicken but cooked differently). Overall, the dish is so forgettable that even as I ate it, my mind wandered to how I'd rework the leftovers.
"Daube de Boeuf Provençale" is a Southern French pot roast. Here, though, it's more a stew, the beef cut into chunks and simmered with tomatoes, red wine and herbs, with a modicum of carrots and potato (and, of course, Asian greens on the side). The mushrooms and bacon listed on the menu description were absent, or at least imperceptible. (Just as well. They don't belong in a Southern French daube -- but are requisite in a different stew from farther north, boeuf bourguignonne. ) The sauce is an acidic browned-flour tomato-beef gravy. It tastes like the "Julia Child Volume I" daube, like other cookbooks' daubes, like all my own attempts at daube -- that is, dried-out economy-grade beef in a heavy sauce that palls fast. I've read travel-writer raves about daubes eaten in France. Maybe it's the water over there -- which nobody drinks but Americans.
Sweet-potato ravioli proved unspeakable: thick, doughy pasta, insulted by undercooking that left the edges chewy. Each oversized rectangle hid a mere half-tablespoon of sweet-potato purée, proportioned like a kitten snoozing between two queen-size blankets. The surrounding cream sauce so reeked of sherry that you could smell it as soon as the waiter entered the room.
Usually, I order at least one fish dish in restaurants, out of enthusiasm as well as duty, but in this case I was warned off a few days before. My most trusted foodie friend had just been to Voyage and said that the sea bass the waiter talked him into ordering was "mediocre." Hearsay may not be admissible in a court of law, but I'll admit so fine a palate's hearsay into evidence.
Desserts are a wasteland of indifferent outsourced pastries. They include an ordinary cheesecake and a cranberry pecan tart, consisting of cloying pecan pie topped with cranberry jelly. The eggy crème brûlée was cremated in-house, though, its topping an acrid layer of blackened sugar. We hadn't even ordered it: The French waiter brought it with the other sweets (and charged us). Once we caught a gander, we didn't make him take it back -- inquiring minds had to know whether it tasted as bad as it looked.
Voyage has a pleasing atmosphere and some quite nice cooking; I can see dropping in for a lunchtime po' boy when I'm in the neighborhood or getting together with a few friends after work to sit on the sidewalk, enjoying a bottle of wine and a graze-o-rama of the lighter dishes. But I don't anticipate that I'll make a habit of it.