鸿门宴 (Hóngményàn) was a banquet that took place in 206 BC. It's a long story, and one that everyone in China knows, but the short version is a rebel leader called Xiang Yu (项羽 Xiàng Yǔ) tried to have his rival Liu Bang (刘邦 Liú Bāng) killed at a feast. Liu Bang escaped, however, and eventually defeated Xiang Yu in battle to become the first emperor of the Han Dynasty.

Now the phrase has come to mean a ruse intended to trap a guest. If a rival or someone you don’t like or trust invites you out to dinner, for example, you could joke, “Is this a 鸿门宴?”

There a couple of other handy idioms that also originate from this event:

A love song to Beijing from the bicycle lane – by Paul Haire

Beijing is just about the perfect cycling city. It’s flat as a pancake, with huge empty cycle lanes and hutongs crying out to be explored, whether in shorts and tshirt on a warm autumn evening or wrapped up to the nines on a freezing winter's day. Hidden gems are behind every corner – from chuanr kebab joints to craft brew pubs.

This is a collection of snapshots from bike rides I made from Fuchengmen, in the west half of central Beijing, to a teahouse near Yonghegong Lama Temple. It was a journey I made many times, and a route that combined the best of Beijing. This was in 2007, when China was new and shiny to me, everything seemed possible, and PM 2.5 hadn’t been invented yet.

A photo essay by Christopher Cherry

It's easy for a photographer to be jealous of a writer. We have all that expensive gear, the constant technology upgrades, Jackie Chan mugging on every second billboard telling you there's a new T1200 with flip-out screen and the ability to auto-correct for nostril hairs. Writers have a disposable pen and a bunch of paper.

But in the last few years, that great photographic equaliser has arrived – the mobile phone. It's always on you (the best camera is the one you carry). It's discreet (see the wonderful Michael Christopher Brown's series of photos of commuter’s faces on Beijing's subway line 2). But most importantly it is leveling the artistic playing field in terms of access.

老百姓 (lǎobǎixìng) – literally "old hundred names", in reference to the most common Chinese surnames – is a common term for "ordinary folk" or "the man on the street". It even works as an adjective, as in "he's really 老百姓".

How did the term come about? Apparently, due to naming taboo ("a cultural taboo against speaking or writing the given names of exalted persons in China"). During the Tang Dynasty it became necessary to avoid the word 民 (mín), as that character was in the given name of the Emperor Taizong, so instead of saying 人民 (rénmín) to refer to the "common folk”, people started using 百姓 (bǎixìng) instead.

A different kind of zoo – Josh Stenberg's story concludes

THIS STORY FIRST APPEARED IN HALITERATURE

Back at the museum building, Vitaly slunk off without saying a word, clearly embarrassed at how far from bovine the tigers had proven. The guide, herself frightened witless, told everyone to keep calm. She could not be blamed for the incident, and though the director cuffed her on the head out of sheer frustration when he emerged from his office, gazing uncomprehendingly at our terror like a fruit bat in sunlight, I do not think her job was ever in danger.

The director then delved into a strikingly quick and unperturbed general address of sorrowful farewell, urging us to return on a more propitious occasion—incidentally, they had successfully hosted many weddings.