Years ago, I was in Munich with two business owners for a supplier meeting on behalf of a Bavarian company. The next day we had time, the weather was beautiful, and we went for a walk in the Englischer Garten. We came across a beer garden, and we were hungry.
One of them went up to the counter. There were various cuts of chicken on display — breast, thigh, wings — and a few different potato options beside them. Pointing at the pieces he wanted, perfectly naturally, he said: “I want this, this, and this.”
The German behind the counter said, “Neeeein,” and pointed to the three menus hanging above: Menu 1, Menu 2, Menu 3. My companion repeated: “No, I only want this, this, and this — not the ones on the menu.” The combination he wanted didn’t exist on any of those set menus.
This went back and forth for a while. Both sides meant well, but they couldn’t meet. Finally I stepped in and asked the man behind the counter, in German: “Could you just ring up the most expensive menu and give him what he wants?” His face relaxed — that was the solution.
At first glance, this is a small disagreement about chicken. But what I was watching was two cultures, two worldviews, meeting head-on. And that scene captures, in a single frame, the most fundamental issue I’ve seen in fifteen years of cross-border business.
Two logics, both right
The German behind the counter wasn’t being stubborn. He wasn’t being difficult. It was simply that, in his mind, “ringing up something that doesn’t exist” was impossible. The system — the pricing, the register, the tax, the accountability — was sacred to him. Protecting the integrity of that system mattered more than pleasing a single customer. Because it is precisely because that system works that you can rely on everything in Germany: what’s promised gets delivered, the invoice is correct, the agreement holds.
My companion wasn’t wrong either. He started from the solution: “This is what I want to eat.” How the system worked didn’t concern him; he was focused on the outcome. And in many parts of the world — including where he came from — that isn’t a flaw, it’s a survival skill. In an environment where rules change often and flexibility is mandatory, thinking practically and in the moment is a necessity.
That’s exactly the point: each is right in his own context. One protects the system, the other finds the solution. The problem was these two logics meeting on opposite sides of the same counter.
So why is the German “like this”?
It’s easy to read this as a personality trait — “Germans are rigid.” But that’s superficial and wrong. The German way isn’t personality; it’s history. What a society has needed over centuries shapes how it behaves today. Three historical roots explain the man behind the counter and his “Nein.”
The guild tradition (Zünfte). In medieval German cities, craftsmen were organised under powerful guilds. A craftsman was trained with great discipline, bound by rules of professional conduct, and held responsible for upholding the integrity of his craft. Quality was synonymous with following the rule. This is the origin of the idea that “doing the job right” must rest on a shared standard, not on personal whim.
The Prussian bureaucracy. In the 18th and 19th centuries, Prussia developed one of Europe’s most efficient administrative systems to govern a fragmented, resource-scarce territory. Military discipline and civic order turned punctuality and predictability into virtues. Keeping time, following the rule, keeping records — these were the conditions for the state to function, and over time they seeped into civilian life.
Industrialisation. In the late 19th century, the industrial revolution turned Germany into an export power. Factory production demanded precise schedules; “time is money” took on a literal meaning. Reliability and precision moved to the centre of the national work ethic — because the German economy was selling the world trust as a manufacturer who “delivers what was promised, in full and on time.”
When these three currents combine, they produce a single phrase: Ordnung muss sein — “there must be order.” This isn’t an obsession; it’s a trust system distilled over centuries. For the man behind the counter, “ringing up a menu that doesn’t exist” meant putting a small crack in that trust system. His “Nein” wasn’t against you; it was loyalty to the system.
Why does someone from elsewhere think differently?
Let’s look at the other side with the same honesty, because this isn’t about “one right, one wrong.” Many economies — Turkey, where I do much of my work, is one clear example, but it is far from the only one — have had to adapt over centuries to fast-changing conditions, economic volatility, and frequently updated rules. In such an environment, the way to survive is flexibility and practical intelligence: putting the solution, not the rule, at the centre. “We’ll find a way” isn’t a weakness; it’s a strength produced by hard conditions.
So the entrepreneur saying “this, this, and this” is just as rational as the German’s “Nein.” Two different histories, two different survival strategies.
The appointment problem: the friction I see most often
The beer garden story isn’t a one-off anecdote. The same difference in logic comes up again and again in business — most of all in scheduling and time planning.
A German business partner will often expect firm confirmation of a meeting a month in advance. It goes in the calendar, it gets planned, preparation is built around it. In many other business cultures this simply doesn’t work the same way — committing to “that day, that hour, a month from now” feels almost impossible, because that world isn’t fixed so far ahead.
From the German’s point of view, this isn’t read as rudeness, but it can be read as a signal of unreliability: “If this person doesn’t stick to their calendar, will they stick to their word?” Whereas on the other side, the opposite holds: a calendar locked too far in advance isn’t realistic, because conditions change.
This is exactly where a bridge has to be built. What I tell clients is this: read the German’s emphasis on the calendar not as an obsession but as a language of trust. The firm confirmation you give to an appointment is the most concrete way of saying “you can rely on me.” That small adjustment is the key that opens the door.
The real lesson: understand first, then adapt
The practical conclusion of all this is simple but powerful. The secret to doing business in Germany isn’t trying to change the German — that isn’t possible anyway. The secret is to understand them.
The moment you understand why the German behaves this way — what the system means to them, why punctuality equals trust, why they expect precise language — you can shape your own communication and way of working accordingly. And the better you do that, the higher your chance of closing the deal.
This doesn’t mean giving up your own identity. Practical intelligence, a focus on solutions, a talent for building relationships — these are real strengths, and they work in Germany too. The task is to translate those strengths into a language the German can understand. At that counter, that’s exactly what I did: I translated what my companion wanted into a form the German’s system could accept (“ring up the most expensive menu”). Both sides won.
What I’ve done for fifteen years is, at its core, this: translating between two logics, each of which is right. Success in Germany doesn’t begin with negotiating harder. It begins with genuinely understanding the person across the table.
Having someone beside you who knows both cultures means getting that translation right from the start — and it usually costs far less than the most expensive mistake.
This article is a general cultural observation based on personal experience; every individual and every situation is different. — Ünal Eren