BERLIN — There’s one wish most people seem to share: We never want to feel small. And yet the same frustrating question keeps popping up in our heads: “Why did I let that happen?” or “Why couldn’t I have just said something?” Doubts, in all caps. We stew in frustration and wish we were quicker on our feet.
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That longing often shows up at work: when a colleague dumps his workload on us (“You can handle this, right?”), when the boss shoots down our salary request for the eighth time (“Unfortunately, that’s just not possible right now”), or when a sharp comment during a presentation catches in our throat like a rusty fishhook.
That’s exactly the feeling I get when I hear: “Calling Torben, the first open-floor speaker, to the podium.”
So — is quick-wittedness something you’re born with, or can you learn it?
At the En Passant bar in Berlin’s Prenzlauer Berg neighborhood, about 40 people sit shoulder-to-shoulder on chairs and benches. It’s cozy. The seat cushions are patched with duct tape, and outside, the April sun is slipping behind the buildings. Every week, this is where the debate club Streitkultur meets. On the moderator’s table: a brass bell with a long wooden handle and a beer. In his hand, a judge’s gavel. The debate has been going on for an hour, and so far, it’s been all male voices — more on that later. The topic: Should spreading fake news be a criminal offense?
I’ve volunteered to speak. My nerves are pounding as I make my way to the podium. In the eye of this pub-storm, I want to find out just how quick on my feet I really am.
We’ve all seen what it looks like when someone’s completely thrown off.
Back in late February, the world watched as J.D. Vance and Donald Trump publicly humiliated Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskyy at the White House. Trump interrupted him, calling him “disrespectful.” Vance jumped in, asking if Zelenskyy had ever said “thank you.” It wasn’t diplomacy — it was an ambush.
If even world leaders can be thrown off balance, what hope do the rest of us have? Is quick-wittedness just something that you’ve either got it — or you don’t?
A veteran debater
Two hours before I make my way through the maze of chairs, I meet Balderich Benkenstein in the bar. He’s the chair of the club. As he sheds his trench coat, I spot a linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves underneath. He’s only 33 but already considered a veteran — he’s been part of the group for 10 years. As an exchange student in the UK, he fell in love with the fiery, theatrical style of parliamentary debate. He wanted to stay calm and confident under pressure, just like those politicians.
Over the years, he’s mastered the art of speaking with energy and flair — a skill that also comes in handy in his job as a procurement lawyer. “These days, not much embarrasses me,” he says. And somehow, he manages to say it without sounding cocky.
You can tell he’s learned to trust his skills as a speaker. “Having the right argument doesn’t just help in a debate,” he adds. “It helps you in real life — in your job, in your relationships, in friendships.”
As we chat, the room fills up with 13 newcomers — men and women. The club holds intro sessions for first-timers like us so we’re not scared off by the intensity of a full-blown debate.
There’s nothing worse than the comeback that comes too late, the perfect reply that only arrives after you’re already home.
People who know me would probably say I’m not shy. I crack jokes, stir discussions with provocative comments, and never back down from an argument. Still, even I get tongue-tied sometimes. I blush, go silent — and later kick myself for it.
There’s nothing worse than the comeback that comes too late, the perfect reply that only arrives after you’re already home. That’s how I’ve ended up agreeing to work while on vacation, or taking on unpaid tasks (“Come on, it’s for a good cause”), or falling silent in a meeting after someone put me on the spot (“Well, I definitely wouldn’t do it like Torben”).
The rules of debating
A fellow board member opens the evening with a declaration: “A debate is not a discussion. It’s not an argument. It’s a sport. And we play by strict rules!”
The group looks like a slice of the educated middle class: journalists, a lawyer, an IT specialist, a primary school teacher. Half men, half women. One woman says she joined because “I want to be more quick-witted.” Another says, “I want to get my stage fright under control.” Nods of agreement ripple through the room.
The format they use is called Open Parliamentary Debate (OPD). It’s a kind of stylized exchange, similar to what you’d see in any national parliament — structured, timed, and with clear rules for rebuttals and interjections. There are always two teams of three people — government (pro) and opposition (con) — who face off. The rest of us in the audience can sign up as “free speakers,” to support either side with additional arguments.
“We’re not looking for consensus,” says the moderator. “And no one has to agree at the end.”
The debate topic is announced a few days beforehand so everyone can prepare.
One fascinating aspect of these mock debates: you can argue for things you don’t personally believe in. “We create a safe space where people can experiment,” Benkenstein tells me. “You can even try out extreme positions. As long as it’s grounded in mutual respect.”
He adds that a skilled debater should be able to pick up an opponent’s argument, reinterpret it, and flip it against them. His tip: begin by repeating the other speaker’s point before presenting your own. “That way, you show you’ve understood them — even if you disagree.”
Don’t take it personally
When it comes to verbal agility in Germany, you can’t ignore communication expert Matthias Nöllke. He’s been writing about it for over 20 years. His book Schlagfertigkeit — “Quick Wit” — is practically a handbook for good arguing. The cover? A pair of boxing gloves.
It’s not about zingers or clever insults
But Nöllke insists it’s not about zingers or clever insults. “It’s about preserving your “sovereignty,” your own sense of dignity,” he writes. Put simply: if you don’t let yourself get crushed, you’ll feel better in the long run.
His core thesis? Say something — anything. When someone blindsides you with a verbal jab, and you say nothing, you often feel powerless afterward. That paralysis has to be broken. And the simplest first step is what he calls “zero-statements” — phrases you can always fall back on. A curt “Aha!” or a slow “Oookay,” paired with a raised eyebrow, shows subtle disdain.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” forces your attacker to repeat themselves — dulling the effect. How good is a sharp remark if it loses its edge the second time around? Even a simple “Good for you.” can do the trick.
Nöllke also suggests mentally gearing up beforehand — imagining a protective shield, like a helmet, a glass dome, or a suit of armor, that deflects verbal blows. Because the real killer of quick-wittedness isn’t the insult — it’s taking it personally. Even if it is personal — don’t stoop to that level.
Staying cool in front of a crowd
Not long ago, I was among the finalists for an international exchange scholarship. For two days, I sat in a room with 30 sharp, ambitious peers listening to talks from politicians, historians, and diplomats. At the end, we were invited to ask questions.
I desperately wanted mine to stand out — something razor-sharp and bulletproof. My mind raced: “Say something smart. Come on, come on.” But someone else beat me to it — they asked exactly the question I’d been stewing on for ten minutes.
So how do you stay composed in front of a crowd?
Before the pub debate kicks off, the free speakers and I are given 15 minutes to prepare. I grab a seat at the bar next to Vincent, a 25-year-old who’s been with the club for a year. “I want to show that fake news existed long before the internet — so banning it doesn’t make sense,” he tells me.
If you’re bad at improvising, you can make up for it with preparation.
Nervous? “Nah. I’m actually excited,” he says. Debating, he says, has helped him. He’s learned to embrace imperfection and doesn’t worry if every point holds up under scrutiny. “Nutella is healthy. That was fake news too, right?” he jokes, jotting a few notes. He’s aiming for humor — even if it risks falling flat.
And that’s key: if you’re bad at improvising, you can make up for it with preparation.
Gender gap
That’s what I did before meeting Sabine Walter, 50, for a video call. She’s a corporate consultant who previously spent 10 years in management roles in the industry, including at Bertelsmann. Today, she trains people in quick thinking and sharp communication.
“Being quick-witted means deflecting and redirecting destructive energy,” Walter says.
“Think of it like Kung Fu.” I’m thinking of the imaginary shield mentioned by Nöllke — Walter has also read his work. For Walter, one thing is clear — whether in a debate, an argument or a dispute: “Don’t be intimidated by the tone of your opponent.”
She says our ability to handle such moments is formed throughout childhood and adolescence. “We develop defense mechanisms when we feel overwhelmed — like, I mustn’t talk back, I have to be nice, I need to be perfect.”
These deeply rooted beliefs can be changed, but it needs work. She also points out that about 90% of her clients are women. “There’s a gender gap — women tend to have less confidence in their quick-wittedness.” And I see the same pattern tonight in the pub: nine men sign up to speak, but only one woman.
Like Nöllke, Walter recommends having a stockpile of go-to comebacks. “That gives you confidence. You don’t need to fire back immediately — you’ve got two to three seconds to react.”
Acknowledge, Breathe, Begin
For people who struggle with public speaking, she teaches the four main pillars to approach the public: Arrive, Acknowledge, Breathe, Begin.
I keep that in mind as I reach the podium. I consciously make eye contact with the audience.
They look curious — not hostile. I trust they won’t tear me to shreds. I press the timer. I’ve got 3 minutes and 30 seconds. Here we go. I exhale and feel myself loosening up.
“We’ve heard the government side make some strong points in favor of banning fake news,” I begin, confidently. “Now I’d like to weigh in as a journalist, and add a little substance to the opposition’s case.” I talk about media independence, about how such a ban could be weaponized against press freedom, and about the need for more robust fact-checking.
Suddenly — a loud bang. I flinch. Sixty seconds are up — the moderator just slammed the gavel. From now on, interjections are allowed.
Benkenstein, on the government side, raises his hand. I glance at him and say: “Not right now.”
You’re allowed to refuse interjections. He sits down. And I think: that was easy. He tries again. I wave him off with a quick flick of my hand and continue.
The third time, I say: “Yes?” He claims our arguments are too similar. “I disagree, and I won’t go further into it,” I say. He sits. I wrap up by saying that rather than banning information, the government should support journalistic diversity. Applause. I feel good — because I held my own. I dodged the blows. I stayed on my feet.
As the evening winds down and more arguments are exchanged, I realize something: quick wit isn’t just about spontaneity. It’s about preparation — and mindset. Facing pushback? So what! Not everyone gets you right away? So what! Being quick on your feet also means cutting yourself some slack.
